The Elder Scrolls V: Dragonborn
by IsaacTheKhajiit
Summary: An Orc runt and a blind Moth Priest must find and save the last living member of the Septim bloodline. An alternate to the story of Skyrim.
1. Chapter 1

__Author's Note:_ This story takes place in an alternate universe where the events of Skyrim are not canon, but the off-screen events leading up to it are. (So in other words, everything from 4E 1-200, including the Great War.) I did borrow some story elements from the real Skyrim- such as Ulfric murdering Torygg- but unless you see it specifically mentioned here you can assume it does not exist. _

_I have always been extremely frustrated with the weak writing and retconning of older lore in Skyrim. (Dragons being evil slave masters, Alduin being Akatosh's son, etc.) It's pretty narcissistic, but I thought I could do better. However, it would be boring if I simply rewrote the story of Skyrim with a few minor changes, so instead I went with a totally different plot for this story. Lore-wise, I do add a few things and fill in some gaps. The difference is that nothing I add changes the player's previous understanding of the world, which I think is the critical difference between retconning and continued world building.  
_

 _So, there's my reason for writing this fic. Constructive criticism, no matter how harsh, is truly welcomed._

* * *

 **Prologue**

4E 187

Jasbir Travere settled into the thickly cushioned chair at his desk, an Elder Scroll laying open before him. These were his private quarters in a wing of the Imperial Library. His aide, a novitiate named Donovan, sat quietly across from him with a large diary across his lap and a quill in hand. His features were dark and blurry to Jasbir, naught but a vague impression of blotches on a pale oval. Jasbir would never know the color of his aide's eyes or the particular shape of his features. Yet he could tell any of the novices and the other Moth Priests apart from their general size and shape, the timbre of their voices, or even their gait. He got along without good vision better than his younger self would ever have expected, and a good thing, too- It would not be long before the scrolls would leave Jasbir completely and permanently blind.

Jasbir's brown hair had already begun to recede from his forehead and was now streaked with the occasional white strands. His gray robe was simple, without ornamentation or flourish. He was of average build, perhaps a little thin. Most priests were. They led very austere lives, with no time for drink or merrymaking. Oftentimes Donovan would practically have to force Jasbir away from his studies to see to it that the Breton ate. The ability to read was something precious and Jasbir intended to cram an entire lifetime's worth of books into the little time he had left.

He gently smoothed down the edges of the scroll. To Jasbir's fingers it was parchment, deceptively soft and thin. But he knew that no mortal instruments would cut it, no fire or magicka could destroy it. Faintly glowing glyphs shifted and warped into new shapes before his very eyes. Jasbir could see them clearly when everything else was an indistinct blur. Donovan had closed his eyes now, so that he could not interfere with the reading or be blinded himself.

Jasbir's eyes traced the glyphs as quickly as they could change, following the symbols he knew by heart and avoiding the others that blinked in his peripheral vision. That was the key to reading an Elder Scroll, to guide the Scroll as it guided the reader through an endless sea of knowledge. A man could spend a hundred lifetimes learning from the Scroll, but Jasbir had less than one. He, and every Moth Priest, most focus on a few particular areas to make the most of their time.

The glyphs grew brighter, pulsing with golden light. Jasbir felt the heat on his face a moment before it engulfed him and he was no longer blind. He could see with a clarity stronger than he had ever known, even as a boy. He was flying over Nirn, the wind bitingly cold against his skin. The ground below was a patchwork of color- lakes and streams shimmered in the sunlight and little brown and gray clusters that might have been towns dotted the landscape miles below.

The scene tilted and the blue expanse of water was now the endless blue of the sky, the sudden appearance of the sun causing no pain on his retinas although he could feel its warmth on his skin. A dark shadow eclipsed the burning orb, leathery, claw-tipped wings spread wide. Dragon! The creature bellowed, a deafening roar as real as the creaking chair when Donovan adjusted his position just moments before.

Another shift. A human woman laying on a stone floor, her short brown hair fanned out around her head like a dark halo. Weak amber light bathed her tanned skin, her hazel eyes vacant and unseeing. Blood trickled from her parted lips and a giant spike of ice protruded from her breast. Jasbir felt a sharp pain, a deep grief. He had seen this woman many times in past visions, but always the details had been obscured. Now he saw every drop of blood, every link in her chainmail cuirass with perfect clarity. Magickal vapor rose from the shard of ice, condensation forming on her face.

Another bloody scene: A brown-haired, bearded man in steel plate armor thrown against the wall of an arena, blood spraying from a fresh gash along his neck. His helmet had been knocked aside and lay several feet away. His cuirass was heavily dented as if crushed beneath the fist of a giant. People were screaming and crying all around him, leaping from the grandstand, their hands aglow with healing magickas, but it was too late. The soul had fled. A woman in full court regalia, including a golden circlet bearing three ruby gems, shrieked from the grandstand box and fell down weeping. Red banners bearing a wolf's head over a shield fluttered from the stone pylons that ringed the arena.

The scene changed again. Jasbir stood before a two-story wooden house, old and unpainted, crawling with green moss and ivy. He felt his body twitch as he shivered in the cold outside. The embers of the dying sun burned low on the horizon to his left, a band of stars already sparkling brilliantly in the darkening sky above. Crickets chirped loudly and small yellow lights near the ground blinked as if to mirror the stars. Jasbir could hear water and knew there must be a river behind him, on the other side of the dirt road on which he stood. The building's windows glowed with a warm orange light from within. The front door suddenly banged open to reveal the silhouette of a fat drunk, laughter and flute music and the delicious scent of fried fish spilling past him into the street. The light from the open door fell upon a hanging sign over the front steps: No name, merely a picture of a boot overflowing with beer foam. The boot had a handle as if it were a mug.

The colors of the scene twisted and turned and Jasbir was looking at a sword embedded vertically in a smooth stone wall, as if the space had been carved out especially to accommodate it. The blade was unprotected and thickly mottled with rust. The gilded hilt was highly stylized, the pommel ending in a dragon's head. The quillons were the dragon's wings unfurled, as if to protect the tear-cut ruby gripped by a claw-like setting in the center of the crossguard. What was once a stunning piece of workmanship had faded from glory long ago and now lay coated by a thin veneer of dust.

Every image had lasted no longer than a few seconds. Some he had seen before, but only as quick flashes here and there, too jumbled and confused to make much sense of. Sometimes the images melded into each other, and other times he saw shapes and colors that defied reality. But this time everything was clear, distinct, comprehensible. The red of the gem drained away like blood from a corpse. All color faded. The blackness engulfed him and Jasbir found himself in his chair, his fingers digging into the armrest.

"Sir? Are you alright? How bad is your sight? How many fingers am I holding up?" He heard Donovan shift, heard his pen hit the table. Jasbir blinked, just to be sure his eyes were open.

He was blind.

"Pick up your pen," he said firmly, impatiently. There was no time to waste. "Record everything I say. Red banner, a wolf and a shield. A boot mug overflowing with beer..."

* * *

 **Chapter One**

4E 200

Gort gro-Urgak knelt before the cairn of stones, staring blankly at the landscape beyond. Colorful lengths of fabric trapped between the stones fluttered as the wind picked them up then fell limp against the mound when it had passed, and at the same time the leaves of the nearby trees flashed in the sunlight like gems. Not long ago Gort found the lush green valleys and deciduous forests of Southeast Skyrim a tranquil haven, but now the scenery may as well have been an endless field of ash for all the comfort it provided. Birds continued to sing and flit from tree to tree, but he did not hear them.

A misty film clouded the scene and Gort closed his eyes. Orcs did not cry.

"Mother, the yurt is so empty without you," the young man whispered. "I hear creaks in the night and think it is you stirring in bed, but then I remember..." He knew that his words were wasted, yet speaking to her was a physical need he could not deny. Whether she had joined their ancestors in the Ashpits or was simply gone forever, she could not hear him. Her body was not even beneath the cairn. Her empty husk, along with the others, lay several miles below his feet in a mine shaft that would never be excavated out of respect for the dead. This cairn belonged to all those who lost their lives in the cave-in. Even in death, Morzola gra-Kahz would not be granted something uniquely hers.

He could hear his mother's voice in his mind, soothing yet firm: "I gave you a strong name for a reason, Gortwog. I knew you would be a strong man, just like your namesake. You will weather this."

She spoke similar words many times. He was always the loser in games of sport. He had failed the trial of adulthood three years in a row. Everything he tried to do ended in failure and humiliation, but Morzola always reassured him that someday he would prevail.

This time, he knew in his heart that it wasn't true. He had always hated his name, hated the fact that his mother had set him against impossible standards from the start. He would never be the man his mother hoped he would be, and Gort felt sorrier now than he ever had before. His eyes still wet, Gort picked himself off the ground and turned back toward the stronghold. As Morzola's only child, her responsibilities now fell to him.

Approaching the palisade wall, he saw a flash of color moving between the tiny gaps in the log spikes. He stopped abruptly, every muscle of his body tightening and his stomach clenching in dread. Then they appeared at the main gate, left open and unguarded- two of his half-brothers, Mog and Torgoth gro-Urgak.

Apparently the grace period allowed for grieving only lasted a month. Gort could tell from the arrogant smirks what they wanted from him.

"Little stubby-tusk had better hurry, he must help the women with their clothes washing," Mog said mockingly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall by the entrance. Torgoth took his place on the opposite side, so that Gort could not enter the village without passing between them. At 17, Mog was one year younger than Gort, and Torgoth three years younger, yet both were taller and more heavily built.

Gort had the misfortune to be born _lorduk-_ a runt. Gort had stopped growing at a measly 5'6", and had always been scrawny compared to the other males of the village who seemed to build muscle with ease. In Gort's own opinion he was uncannily ugly, even for an Orc. Flat nose, a weak chin, large gaps between his teeth. His fat lower lip bulged out around his tusks, although they were uncommonly short and did not protrude past his lip. Even his skin tone was weak- a pale emerald, compared to the dark olive-green complexion most of his brothers had inherited from their shared father.

Mog and Torgoth were both the sons of Chief Durog gro-Urgak's first wife. The families of his first and second wives lived in the giant crescent-shaped longhouse, while the third wife- Morzola- had been relegated to a small yurt nearby. Those families got first pick from any kill made by any hunter in the village and the first pick of ores brought up from the mines. Durog's children thought they were better than everyone else and lorded their status over the other village youths, but Gort, unable to defend himself well due to his size and lack of strength, had always bore the brunt of their malice.

Gort glared silently at the boys, his hands clenched at his sides. They always infuriated him, but now, picking on someone who had come from visiting a grave? They were scum. But there was nothing he could do about it. An Orc had to defend his own honor- if he could not, he was not a man.

"Got nothing to say, tuskless?" Torgoth asked with a grin. He was a bit thinner and smaller than his elder brother, but having a strong friend made him cocky. Gort would have a hard enough time facing him alone, but as long as Mog or Kurza or Lum were by his side, he was utterly safe.

"May I pass?" Gort asked stiffly through clenched teeth, his eyes dropping to the ground.

"Well go on then," Mog said, jerking his chin toward the village. "You look about to cry, and none of us want to witness that!" The implication was a serious insult to an Orc, one that Gort should have answered with violence. Instead he timidly bowed his head and plodded past the sentries. He could feel their gaze burning on his skin and he tensed for the strike he knew would come. The taller boys turned and silently watched him go as he passed, smirking to each other. To Gort's confusion, nothing happened. It wasn't until Gort was a few feet into the village that the first stone struck the back of his head.

So that was the reason for their crossed arms- they were concealing rocks in their palms.

Gort broke into a run as rocks pelted him from behind. Mog and Torgoth ran out of stones in just a few seconds and then broke into peals of laughter. They'd had their fun, they would not pursue him.

Gort ran up the weedy dirt path that led to his small yurt behind the massive longhouse at the center of the village and didn't stop until the door banged shut behind him. He paused then, waiting for his racing heart to calm and his shuddering breaths to slow, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness inside. The only light came from the smoke hole in the center of the little room. Dust motes swam in the circle of light upon the floor, divided into fourths by the beams across the roof. Gort watched them until they blurred, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. How ashamed his mother would be, if she were alive. Perhaps it was better this way.

No sooner had Gort regained his composure and moved to begin his chores for the day when there was a knock at the door. There had been a stream of visitors in the week following Morzola's death as villagers left their condolences, but that had tapered off and he had no idea who it could be.

"Come in," Gort said, sitting down on a cushion by the pit in the center of the room and picking up his firesteel and flint to get the fire going for his guest. He froze when the door opened and he saw the familiar silhouette that blocked the daylight.

"Father?"

"Good day, Gortwog," Durog gro-Urgak said curtly, maneuvering his wide frame into the room and closing the door behind himself. He was dressed in an assortment of animal furs, including a great bearskin cape, its long claws clutching his shoulders. Durog was an imposing beast of a man with old scars crisscrossing his broad face. His golden eyes were barely visible, tucked deep in his skull and hidden beneath a heavy, protruding brow. His long tusks curled back so that they nearly touched his own flaring nostrils. Like Gort and most of his brothers, he wore his black hair in a high topknot.

Gort scrambled up, the fire forgotten. "Let me fetch you a drink!"

"Not necessary," Durog grunted, holding up a hand scored with countless nicks from old battles. "I need to speak with you. Sit." He gestured towards the cushion as if he were offering Gort a seat in his own house- although technically he was, as the yurt belonged to him. Gort nodded and sat obediently, his wide eyes trained expectantly on his father's face. Durog still stood mostly in the shadows, only part of his face and chest entering the circle of light.

"You are a man now, Gort, and as your father and Chief I believe it is time for you to forge your own destiny," Durog began, crossing his arms behind his back and holding his chin high as he spoke. Gort's brow crinkled in confusion, but he did not interrupt. "No son can achieve greatness in the shadow of his own father. For that reason, it is time for you to leave."

Gort's face collapsed into utter shock, his jaw gaping uselessly for a moment before he found his voice. When he finally spoke, it sounded pathetically weak, not calm and collected as he'd intended.

"What- what do you mean, Father? What destiny do you speak of?" He leaned forward, fingers clenching on his knees.

"I don't know," Durog said. He was so cold, so detached, Gort thought. "To found your own stronghold or to take a wife at another- only time will tell."

"And what of Mog? Or Lum? Is it their destiny to seek their fortune outside these walls as well?"

"I don't know that either. Perhaps someday."

Gort exhaled sharply at the sudden pain in his chest. Durog knew very well that a runt like Gort would never have his own stronghold or take a wife. To say it was utterly ridiculous, but Gort could not refute it without dishonoring himself. He understood now perfectly what Durog was saying: _you are not wanted._ It cut so much deeper than he could have imagined.

It was clear now that the only reason he hadn't been sent away earlier was because of Morzola. She would never have allowed it. Gort had never been close to his father, had even resented him at times for the preferential treatment he gave his other wives and sons, but never did he believe his father was capable of this sort of cruelty.

"But Father, I don't understand," Gort said desperately, searching Durog's eyes for any trace of empathy. He felt so small, so unequal sitting there on the floor, gazing up at the man that towered over him in stature and status alike. Shame and grief welled up inside him. _Don't make me beg, Father, please..._ "I don't know where I'll go.. my home is here..."

"You worry too much, Gortwog. I will give you a week to prepare. You will leave with the best steel and plenty of food for your journey. But I have no doubt you'll do just fine. You understand that this is for your own good, don't you? Your mother coddled you far too much. Say that you understand, boy."

Gort held his father's gaze. A mask had come up, one which he often used in dealing with his father. Inside he felt the deepest grief, but his face showed only cold acceptance.

"I understand, Chief," Gort answered mechanically. His father grunted in acknowledgment and turned to go, leaving Gort alone in the the small room that suddenly seemed infinitely dark and empty. It could almost swallow him up.

He sat there for a length of time that could have been minutes or hours. Time had no meaning to Gort. In the span of a month he had lost his mother, his home, his entire world. There was no place for him here, that was true. Gort had always known it. But there was no place for him outside the walls either. Durog knew that, but now Gort would no longer be his problem. It was only natural to want to wipe away a blemish.

He moved in a daze over to the bed draped with animal furs at the perimeter of the room, untouched since Morzola's death. Her smell still lingered there. It comforted him and drove the knives deeper all at once. Gort stooped to pull out the pack bag stored beneath the bed.

Durog said he would give Gort a week to prepare, and send him off with "the best steel". Perhaps it was foolish for him to turn down those provisions, but Gort wanted nothing to do with his father's false generosity. Spurning these gifts would be his first act of independence. With his hunting bow and his mother's axe, Gort would be able to hunt and provide for himself just fine.

Protecting himself against other people was another matter entirely, but Gort had no choice. The finest sword ever forged was useless in the hands of a weakling.

He spent the rest of the day sorting through his belongings, deliberating on what was essential to have and what was unnecessary weight. He did not leave the yurt or attend to any of his duties. It seemed as though everything he touched brought forth some memory of his mother and Gort felt that he could not possibly part with the item for sentimental reasons. In the end, common sense won out. He did not need the painted dishes she so loved. He did not need the crude redware vase he had made for her as a child. He did not need the first misshapen knife he had forged with her aide. With tears in his eyes, he burned, broke, and destroyed all of their things so that those vultures from the village could not take them when he was gone. When he was done, red and black shards of porcelain littered the fire pit, the vibrant color dulled by the ashes of Morzola's clothes.

When the sun had set and the night breeze whispered through the trees, Gort quietly made his way through the sleeping village. The ribbons trapped in the cairn flapped as he passed, the cloth muted shades of gray in the moonlight.

He did not look back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

One year later

The warmth of the newly risen sun upon his upturned face and the summer breeze that ruffled his hair was pleasant enough, but today Jasbir ached for more. He could still recall how the water glittered beneath the sun like diamonds, or how a meadow became a rainbow of wildflowers in the spring. He had fully adjusted to his blindness, but there were days when he wished he could see the beauty of Nirn one last time. He still saw these things in his dreams, although none of these memories were as strong or as vibrant as those of his final vision.

Those sights were etched into his mind's eye forever. Sometimes he could not really remember- was water blue or was it clear? But the eyes of that girl- brown and moss-green hazel, still wet yet never again to close of their own power- would never be forgotten. It was the driving force of his life, the thing which had brought him away from the monastery to live in solitude just a day's ride from Stonecross.

The world burst with life and light all around him, but Jasbir sat alone in the dark. He could hear a squirrel chewing on a nut just off his porch and wild turkeys raking through leaves at the edge of the forest that enclosed his tiny cottage. The wildlife had learned that the elderly Breton was no threat to them and had moved in close. Jasbir would have given almost anything to be able to see his wild companions.

Jasbir knew that he must have changed much over the years, although his self-perception was still that of a 49 year old man in relatively good shape and most of his hair. Now he was 62 and thin to the point of being almost gaunt. The long, stringy hairs that clung to the back of his scalp were as white as his beard, an interesting contrast with his tan complexion. He spent much of his time outdoors and the sun had not been kind to his skin. Liver spots mottled his wrinkled face.

Jasbir was not frail despite his appearance. He made a great effort to stay active. There was little else to do- he could not read and had few visitors. Gathering firewood and gardening took up most of his time, although he lost many plants to the rabbits and crows. He walked daily to the nearby Silverfish River to fetch his water rather than using the well near the house, although sometimes he would cheat and carry the buckets back with telekinesis. Keeping his magical abilities sharp was just as important, after all.

He heard the pounding of horse's hooves long before the average person would have noticed the faraway noise. Normally this would be cause for Jasbir to vacate his rocking chair and prepare tea for the guest, but Vinnus was not yet due for another week. The man was employed by the Order to check on Jasbir once a month. He supplied the retired Moth Priest with clothes, food, and other supplies, but more importantly, news. So Jasbir waited patiently to see whether an old friend or a stranger of ill intent had come to visit, his palms resting calmly on his knees as he listened. Unless it was a lost hunter, whoever it was surely intended the cabin as their destination. There was no one else around for miles. As the sound grew closer, Jasbir realized there were _two_ horses.

"Master Travere! Master Travere!" It was Vinnus alright, the alarm in his voice immediately setting Jasbir on edge. Jasbir transferred his weight to his twisted oak walking staff as he stood, his brow furrowing in concern above closed lids. Clods of turf flew up as the horses came to an abrupt halt and reigns jingled as Vinnus jumped from his mount.

"Master Travere," Vinnus panted, holding his horse by the bridle and standing at the base of the steps. A second horse outfitted with riding gear and several travel bags had been tied to his. "It's happened. High King Torygg has been slain."

The horses had been exhausted when Vinnus arrived, their hides gleaming with sweat. Vinnus had run them from the Imperial City with few breaks, making a three day journey in only two. Jasbir insisted that they wait before setting out- As eager as both were to reach their destination, lame horses would be of no use. While Vinnus watered the horses at the river, Jasbir prepared tea and sandwiches. He felt utterly disconnected from reality as his hands moved mechanically about their task, yet the Priest remained calm.

About two hours after Vinnus had come the pair finally began the trek for Stonecross, a tiny village resting near the Panther River, East of the Niben Bay. With a population of less than a hundred, the settlement was absent from most maps. After his vision it had taken almost a year for the researchers to find it, the sign on the tavern being their only real clue. Jasbir knew now that it was aptly named The Drunken Sole. Although the title was not written anyplace on the building, the locals knew it.

They were now plodding South along the Yellow Road at a leisurely pace. Jasbir was not used to riding and his backside was already aching. He was dressed in a faded blue robe, something a traveling apothecary of modest means might wear, for that's what he was if anyone should ask. His staff was strapped alongside the bags.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," Vinnus said with contempt. Jasbir met the man after he'd become blind, so he did not know what Vinnus looked like. But he was Imperial, average height judging by the source of his voice, and by now in his early 30s. He was not part of the Order of the Ancestor Moth, but he worked closely with them. People like Vinnus were the eyes and hands of the Order outside of the Imperial City and the Jerall Mountains Temple- they helped to identify the people and places seen in the sacred visions. "Are you sure it was really the best thing not to tell him of the prophecy? Skyrim will be thrown into chaos without its king."

Jasbir shook his head, and then realized Vinnus may not have seen it- his horse was following the other a few paces behind, still connected by a rope.

"Diverting fate is a tricky thing, my friend. We must focus on those things which we can more readily control. If we told Torygg of what was to come, would he even believe us? Perhaps he would not have fought Ulfric, but then perhaps he would have died in some other way. In my vision I did not see the man who killed him, so I didn't know exactly how, or even when, his death would come. There was no way to prevent it without keeping the man hidden away his entire life. There was simply no easy way to divert his destiny, so it was better that he did not know.

"Furthermore, I could not be completely certain the man I saw was Torygg. Fathers and sons look much alike. This event might have taken place three generations from now, for all I knew. The only certainty was the crest of Solitude on the banners."

Vinnus and Jasbir had discussed the topic many times, although in the past it had been simply hypothetical. Vinnus was a good man, a hard worker, but he lacked forethought. Vinnus began to reply, but Jasbir held up a hand and shushed him. He tilted his head, listening. Something was moving in the brush alongside the road to their left.

 _Thwp._

Jasbir heard a leathery creak and a thump as Vinnus's body flopped over the side of his horse, propelled by the force of the shot. His head smacked the ground, but with his foot in the stirrup his body was still hanging off the side of the horse. He did not cry out; the arrow must have cleanly penetrated his brain, granting an instant death. Before the horse even had time to react to this strange dismounting another arrow pierced the fatty crest of its neck. It cried out, a shrill scream of pain and fear and reared back, startling the second horse.

With a quick flick of his wrist a translucent violet shell encased the surviving Breton just as his mount whinnied in startlement and pranced aside. The first horse's front hooves clopped down and he shot off like a bolt, yanking the other horse along. Jasbir, inexperienced rider that he was, hadn't put his own feet in his stirrups. The sudden jolt of movement sent him flying backward and before he knew what was happening the hard ground slammed into his side. He lay curled on the road, mouth gaping for a full second before the scream finally tore from his throat. Unimaginable pain radiated from his hip and shoulder.

"Grab the horses!"

"Hurry!"

"Be still old man!"

So many voices shouting all at once. Rattling armor. Running feet. Jasbir clenched his teeth through the pain and released a burst of healing magicka, the spiral of blue light enveloping his body. He felt several clicks from his hip as the shattered bones realigned themselves. The pain faded and he rolled onto his hands and knees, only to be greeted by something sharp poking into the side of his neck.

"Is he deaf? Do not move or Khajiit slits the old man's throat," a smooth male voice commanded. Jasbir could feel his shield crackling around him. It would slow and dull any physical attack and would have prevented the arrows from hitting him at full force, but it could not save him from so direct a cut. Because he knew the precise location of the weapon Jasbir might fling it away with telekinesis, but there were too many of them. He had to be calm, he had to figure out how many there were before he could act. He slowly transferred his weight onto his knees and held up his hands, the universal signal of surrender.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Gort wasn't able to catch the horses. He slowed to a trot and then stopped completely, inwardly cringing as the animals disappeared down the road and threw up a cloud dust in their wake. He turned back to the others. Rani, the wood elf who had slain the Imperial, shot him the dirtiest look when his eyes met hers. She still held her yew longbow in hand in case she was needed.

"I'm supposed to outrun horses, now?" Gort snapped, bending down to pick up the axe he had dropped. She rolled her eyes and turned away, flipping her single blonde braid over her shoulder. Between the four of them, she was the only one fully armored in layers of hide and animal skins she had slain, tanned and tailored herself. Gort was dressed in a messy conglomerate of stolen armor; steel boots and greaves flaked with rust, ornately styled Orcish gauntlets, a leather cuirass and a legionnaire's open faced helm. The helm was a tad too big for him and had a tendency to slide this way and that. Sometimes it would tilt forward and the nasal dug into his lip. He'd had to hold onto it with one hand as he ran after the horses, although in retrospect he wished he'd just let it fall with his axe. His hair had grown long in the previous year and hung loose around his neck in greasy, unwashed clumps.

The Khajiit twins, J'Dar and Zabul, had encircled the lone human like wolves thirsty for blood. Neither wore armor, and in the months Gort had known them he had never seen that the brothers needed any. Both were incredible acrobats, capable of nimbly dancing around their opponents' strikes while the other slipped behind to stab them in the back. Zabul held his steel shortsword against the old man's neck, while J'Dar stood nearby with a dagger in each hand. Gauging that the Breton was no threat, J'Dar flipped the daggers and slid them into the sheaths attached to each side of his belt. Both wore sleeveless tunics and breeches over their rosette patterned fur, both equally grimy. Several golden rings jangled from J'Dar's left ear- one of the few ways in which Gort could tell them apart.

The man on the ground was ancient. Gort had never seen anyone with hair so white. He sat on his knees, chin held high, hands raised to the level of his head with his palms open and flat. He stared with a look of concentration at nothing in particular. He seemed to have no reaction to the corpse of his companion laying just a few feet away, a pool of blood slowly crawling toward him. Grief and guilt twisted in his gut and Gort looked away. Rani was supposed to fire a warning shot, but it was no secret that murder thrilled her. These honorless killings sickened Gort. He knew he had to get away from these thugs before the Legion killed them all, but he didn't know where to go... He was tired of sleeping in caves, tired of fighting off goblins and trolls for game he took down himself, and generally living like a damn animal. At least this way he could afford good food and mead...

"Mister Breton will empty his pockets and leave the things on the ground," Zabul said. J'Dar glared at Rani, who had dropped down to rifle through the dead man's pockets.

"We tell her over and over again! Fighting scares away horses, makes the people panic and act stupid! Now all of the loot is gone," he growled, tail lashing from side to side in annoyance.

"They won't go far. We just have to find them before a patrol does," Rani shrugged. She pocketed a few gold coins found on the corpse and stood up.

"I don't have anything," the man spoke. Tension crept into his voice although he was obviously making a great effort to remain calm. There was something wrong about him- why wasn't he reacting to the corpse? Why wouldn't he look at any of them? The violet shield encasing him finally faded away.

"They always want to do it the hard way," J'Dar snapped, yanking the man aside by the collar of his robe and roughly patting down his body himself. Fear passed over the Breton's face but he allowed himself to be manhandled with no further reaction.

"Feh! He has nothing after all." The Khajiit callously shoved the old man back onto the ground. He grunted and winced when he hit. Gort's jaw clenched but he swallowed his words. If he showed any indication of having second thoughts about this, the other bandits would slay him without hesitation rather than leaving him free to tattle to the guards.

A large shadow suddenly passed across the ground, blotting out the overhead sun for a brief moment. Gort looked up, steadying his helm with one hand, and let out a garbled cry when he finally registered what he was seeing. The others had all looked up as well and saw the same thing.

"Dragon!" Rani shouted.

The creature was incredibly large even at that distance- although with no frame of reference it was hard to say how far away, really. The sleek, ruddy-brown scales gleamed in the sunlight as it wheeled overhead. Its broad wings seemed to be semi-translucent against the background of the sky, thick red veins snaking through gray and dull yellowish mottling. Bony ridges lined the length of its body and two great horns curved back from its skull.

It had flown past the group on the road and now returned for a second pass while swooping lower, hurtling towards them with impossible speed. Its jaws opened to emit a roar that shook the entire world. The other bandits scattered. Gort stared stupidly for a moment before stumbling backward and clanking down on his rear, just as the open maw slammed into the retreating Zabul and the dragon carried him off. The wind from the massive wings battered the old Breton to the ground where he sat hunched with his hands shielding the back of his head. Gort heard Zabul's terrified shrieks and then a crunch before a torrent of blood splattered the road. The Orc rolled over onto his knees, his helm falling off as he shoved himself up to his feet. He ignored it and sprinted for his life toward the forest, axe still in his hand. He heard a thump and a trumpeting roar and knew Zabul's broken body had been dropped. He ran madly, branches and bushes smacking against him, brambles raking his unprotected face until he could no longer hear the screams or the roars of the dragon.

Finally his lungs hurt so badly that he simply couldn't go on and Gort collapsed against a tree, heaving air into his burning lungs and hearing nothing but the blood pounding in his ears. He turned to look at the direction he had come from, but his view of the sky was obscured by the trees. As his breathing finally slowed he found that the forest was utterly quiet. He strained his ears and could hear nothing but the gentle rustling of leaves.

"Malacath," Gort whispered, and sunk to the ground with his back against the tree, clutching his axe to his chest. He trembled violently. He was stuck reliving the moment before Zabul's death over and over again: The Khajiit's eyes bulging in complete terror, mouth open in a helpless scream as the jaws snatched him up. Gort couldn't think of anything else. He heard more screaming and knew someone else had died after that, but didn't know who. As much as he hated Rani and the others, he wouldn't wish that sort of end to anyone...

Gort shook himself and clambered up. It wasn't safe out here. He had to take shelter in a town. If dragons had returned to Tamriel, someone had to tell the Legion... and Gort might be the only survivor of the slaughter on the road. Cautiously, he made his way Southwest- toward the road, but further South from the place of the attack.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Gort peeped around the tree trunk, scanning the road and sky before he cautiously stepped out from beneath the protective cover of the forest canopy. It had taken over an hour to find the road again and by that time the heat of the noon sun was beginning to dissipate. Gort had run further than he thought in his mindless terror. Now there was no sign of the dragon, no sign that any violence had occurred. To his astonishment Gort noticed a figure on the Northern horizon. He waited for a moment, squinting. Was it the old man? It was- as he neared Gort could make out a stick in his hand, which he was using as a cane to tap the ground in front of and beside him. He moved with stilted, shuffling steps. Dark stains smeared his robe at the knees, chest, and on his sleeves. Flakes of dirt were caught in his long beard.

 _He's blind,_ Gort realized. The revelation was shocking, but fortuitous. The man would not know who Gort was. He waited for the Breton to come nearer, anxiously glancing up at the sky every few moments. What he really wanted to do was run without stopping until he reached Leyawiin, but it was his fault that this man had lost his horses and gear. Gort couldn't just leave him. He sat down at the edge of the road to wait, rehearsing in his mind what he would say. Unfortunately, he never got the chance.

"Good afternoon, stranger," the man said as he was still several feet off, tilting his head and looking in Gort's general direction. He had stopped walking and rested his weight against the stick he carried, a sheen of perspiration coating his face. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and licked his lips, then exhaled laboriously. He seemed to be exhausted.

"Uh, hello Mister," Gort blurted, scrambling to his feet. He wondered how the man knew he was there. "I saw you coming, and... what happened? You got blood all over you..." Gort's voice trembled. _What a bastard I am, playing dumb to the man I tried to rob.._

The man's face hardened, thin lips pulled into a taut line. For a second Gort doubted his blindness. The Breton appeared to be looking straight at him, examining him with a critical eye. Then he exhaled and his face fell slack, as if suddenly too weary to care about anything.

"I was attacked by bandits, my companion murdered. Horses and luggage lost. I don't suppose you have water?" he asked, voice totally devoid of emotion. He leaned against the branch he carried. Gort fumbled for the canteen tied to his belt and clanked a few steps toward the man. He stupidly held the water out for a moment before he remembered.

"Right here," he said, touching the canteen to one of the man's hands. Wordlessly the Breton shifted his weight away from his stick so that he could uncork the leather flask. He drank greedily, wincing at the pain caused by his hurried gulps. It was nearly empty when he handed the canteen back for Gort to take.

"Thank you," The Breton said, and then crinkled his nose. "You stink like an Orc, son. What in the name of the Divines are you doing out here?"

The casual insult sent a jolt up Gort's spine.

"I _am_ an Orc, Mister," was all he could say, completely baffled by the bluntness. He was not really offended, though. Gort knew his kind were reviled by humans and elves alike. He hadn't been able to find work in any of the towns because of it. A part of him completely understood their aversion, as he was not fond of his own people himself.

"Oh!" the man said, the shock on his face mirroring Gort's. He was clearly embarrassed by his own comment. "I didn't mean- it's just an expression. I meant that you seem like you've been.. living outside.. for a long time." A politer way of saying _you smell filthy_. He extended a hand toward Gort, probably in an attempt to assure the Orc that he couldn't possibly be racist if he deigned to touch him. "My name is Jasbir Travere and I sincerely beg your pardon. You are?"

Gort stared at the proffered hand for a moment before finally accepting, the warmth of the Breton's hand obscured by the leather palm and fingers of Gort's gauntlet. He gripped the hand hard before releasing and found himself blinking in confusion at the weakness of the other's grasp. Gort had never seen a person so old and frail before.. an Orc would never allow themselves to survive to such a pitiable state. The old man was disgusting in a way, but intriguing as well.

"Gort," he said. He was not at all inclined to share his full or family name.

"If you don't mind, Gort, I'd like to continue our conversation while we walk," Jasbir said, turning back to the South and resuming his stiff gait. Gort kept pace with him easily.

"Where're you headed?" Gort asked. He continued to glance behind from time to time, fearing the dragon might reappear at any moment. He couldn't believe Jasbir had not mentioned the dragon attack, and Gort couldn't bring it up himself without revealing he had belonged to the bandit party. Maybe Jasbir assumed Gort would just think him senile.

"A little town called Stonecross. I have a very important meeting there, which the loss of my horse has terribly delayed. Listen, Gort.. it is not my business to pry, but I am at a disadvantage here." He smiled wryly, as if making a joke of his blindness. "You did not answer when I asked what you're doing out here."

Gort shrugged uncomfortably, looking down at his own feet as he walked.

"It's a long story," he said. That, at least, was no lie. "I got no home. I'm traveling and making ends meet where I can." Even though the other could not see him, he found it impossible to look Jasbir in the face as he said this.

"I see," Jasbir responded after a pause, the creases of his wrinkled forehead deepening as he pulled inward to think. A decision suddenly reached, Jasbir stopped abruptly and turned to face Gort, frowning seriously. "I'm going to be blunt now, Gort. I was no match against the four of you together, but if you so much as raise a finger against me you'll be dead before you know what hit you. The blind can still use magicka." He spoke with such conviction that Gort did not doubt him. The Orc's hands balled into fists at his side and he lowered his gaze to the ground, ashamed and shocked that he'd been recognized after all.

"But the fact of the matter is, I am still helpless in many ways. There is a very good chance I will either miss the fork leading to Stonecross or take the wrong path. Even if I found my destination safely I wouldn't be able to find the right person by myself. So I have no choice but to ask for your help. If earning honest pay appeals to you, I offer you employment as my aide. As you already know I have no coin on my person, but you will be paid handsomely _after_ my work is finished."

Shame washed over Gort in waves. It took several seconds to finally squeeze out the words he knew he had to say, but at least he was able to force his chin up to look the blind man in the eye as he said it.

"Mister Travere, I'll help you for free. I didn't shoot your man, I swear it, but I can't deny my role in his death. I'm yours until you say my debt is paid."

Jasbir's face showed only the slightest hint of surprise. He did not smile or seem appreciative. Gort understood; he was still a bandit thug with blood on his hands, and Jasbir's friend was still dead. He didn't expect this man to trust him just because he spoke a few pretty words.

"Well," Jasbir began slowly. "We'll see if you keep your word. Come along, Gort, we have a long walk ahead of us."

It wasn't the answer he expected. Jasbir turned and continued on his way, as if everything were perfectly settled between them. Gort stared stupidly after him for a moment before he realized his offer had been accepted. Given the old man's painfully slow and labored movement, it only took the young Orc a few steps to catch up with him, but it took several minutes of enduring an awkward silence before Gort finally worked up the courage to speak again.

"Seems as you're my boss now, I got a lot of questions to ask... What's in Stonecross? I never heard of the place to be honest."

Jasbir hesitated.

"Well.. I suppose if I'm trusting you this far, I ought to trust you with the rest of it," he said slowly. "Are you familiar with the Order of the Ancestor Moth?"

Gort thought for a moment and his eyes widened as recognition suddenly dawned.

"Are you one of those priests that reads the Elder Scrolls and gets blinded by it?"

"Yes. I have been blind for the past thirteen years, following my final and most powerful vision." Jasbir recited the contents of his vision then as he had done so many times before, every word completely memorized and automatic. Not a single detail had been forgotten. Flying through the sky, the dragon that blotted out the sun, the dead woman with the short brown hair, the slaying of a man thought to be a king of Skyrim, the tavern by the river, and finally, the sword in the wall. He never stopped walking while he spoke, and he began to huff between words as he finished the tale. His face glistened with sweat.

"You saw the dragon! You knew that would happen!? If you knew dragons would return to Tamriel, why didn't I hear it before? The girl, who is she? Who killed her? What's the-" In his excitement the words spilled out of Gort in a quick, nearly incomprehensible babble. Jasbir held up a hand to silence him.

"One thing at a time," he said wearily. "I did not know when or where these things would occur. The only fixed locations were the arena in Solitude and the tavern in Stonecross. There's no use getting the population riled up about the coming of dragons when it might not even happen for another two hundred years." He sighed. It was like explaining everything to Vinnus all over again. He winced at a sudden cramp that shot waves of pain up his leg and Gort quickly looked away so as not to bear witness to his weakness.

"Do you mind if we stop a moment, Mister Travere? I have to fill my canteen," Gort said cautiously.

"Yes, go on." Jasbir waved him off, the corner of his lip lifting in a tiny smile that quickly disappeared in another wince. He rested his full weight against the stick as he listened to Gort tromping off into the long grass that separated road from river. The soft susurration of water gliding over stone had slowly filtered into his consciousness several minutes ago as they came upon the first bend of the Panther River. The turn off toward Stonecross would come soon.

Gort crouched on the sandy bank, looking over his shoulder at the figure half-obscured by brush and tall grass on the road while he waited with his hand and canteen submerged in the river. It was difficult to watch Jasbir hobble along. Weakling runt that he was, at least Gort had his dignity.

 _Or do you?_ Gort asked the distorted green face in the water. _He forces others to accommodate his frailty. You take what isn't yours to have._ He drank his fill of water, refilled the canteen, and took his time returning to Jasbir's side.

"Here," he said, touching the water to the man's hand again. Jasbir drank, this time without urgency, and handed the canteen back to the Orc.

"Thank you. And where were we? Ah, yes. My vision by itself did not contain enough information to tell us anything important. It merely provided several pieces to a larger puzzle. One of these pieces is an ancient prophecy of purported Akaviri origin. The earliest record of this prophecy dates back to the last century of the First Era. Who recorded it and from what source has been lost. I'm sure that, being of such obscure and uncertain origin, no one took it seriously until it began to come true thousands of years later. It is known as the Dragonborn Prophecy:

"When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world  
When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped  
When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles  
When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls  
When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding  
The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn."

They had continued walking as Jasbir spoke, and now Gort stared at the Breton with one eyebrow arched.

"I don't know what any of that means," he said. Jasbir frowned.

"You've never heard of Jagar Tharn? Tiber Septim? The Tribunal?" Jasbir's tone clearly spoke that he was skeptical anyone could be so ignorant.

"Mister, I grew up in an Orc village. We have our own heroes of legend and they ain't yours. I know who Tiber Septim is, and the last Dragonborn- that's Martin Septim, right? I don't think there's a man alive in Tamriel who don't know that name. But as to the rest you might as well be speaking lizard-tongue."

"Hmm. Well, it's not important that you know. Trust me when I say that all these things have come to pass as the prophecy says, with one exception- the last line. The 'last Dragonborn' referred to here is not Martin Septim. When the Snow Tower lies sundered and kingless, we believe that to be the death of High King Torygg, the King of Skyrim. That happens _after_ Martin died, so it can't refer to him."

"I see. Yeah, the name Torygg does ring a bell... I'm from Skyrim, although we never paid much mind to mannish affairs. He's the guy you saw die at the arena in Solitude, then? And when he dies, the final part of this prophecy will be filled next?"

Jasbir smiled.

"Torygg was slain three days ago. It will probably take a day or two more for word to travel through the general populace."

"Wait a minute-" Gort stopped in his tracks, his yellow eyes widening at a sudden terrible realization. "The World-Eater is from that stupid legend of the Nords- Alduin, the dragon. Dragon! Mister, why didn't you say so earlier?! That dragon is Alduin and it's here to eat the world! I never thought those inbred lugs could be right about anything..."

"You're getting ahead of yourself," Jasbir said. "Do you know anything about the Amulet of Kings? This amulet bore a stone called the Red Diamond, rumored to have been crafted from the blood of Akatosh Himself. It was destroyed over a hundred years ago, of course. Perhaps it is merely coincidence that the sword I saw in my vision had been adorned with some red stone... But the dragon motif and the tear, or rather blood drop shape of the gem is very telling. Much like the Amulet of Kings, I believe this weapon is destined for the hands of the last Dragonborn. Furthermore, I think I know who she is."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

It was not long after that they found the horses cropping grass in a small stretch of meadow alongside the river. Some blood had seeped from around the embedded arrow shaft and dried on the fur of the injured horse, but it had not struck a vital area and the poor beast appeared to be alright despite the pain. They allowed Gort to capture their reigns without fuss.

"You'll have to yank that arrow out while I hold him," Jasbir said after Gort had described the situation to him.

"Mister, are you kidding? It'll go nuts and try to break away," Gort said, even though he himself knew there was no other way. He cringed at the thought of this thousand pound creature rearing up and squealing in pain only to slam down on poor Jasbir hooves-first. His brittle old bones would be snapped like twigs.

"That won't happen," Jasbir said, tossing his makeshift cane on the ground and moving toward the sound of Gort's voice. He found the horse's bridle and Gort stepped back, letting Jasbir hold the animal himself with a dubious frown. The other horse had lowered its head to the grass again, uninterested in whatever was happening to the companion to which he was tied.

Jasbir touched his other hand to the horse's broad cheek. A lush green light spilled from the Breton's palm and flowed over the animal's hide, dissipating as it spread from the origin. The horse's eyelids drooped and it stopped moving completely- it's tail stopped swishing, and it's occasional pawing of the ground or shifting from hoof to hoof ceased.

"Do it now," Jasbir said gently, stroking the horse's cheek while firmly gripping the bridle with his other hand. Gort found himself so mesmerized by the display that he almost forgot himself. Magic was taboo in Skyrim and among his own people especially- mind control magickas second only to necromancy in their profanity. He swallowed uneasily and stepped forward, bracing one hand against the horse's neck and grasping the arrow with the other.

He yanked. A spurt of blood followed the arrow as the head ripped through flesh and splattered on Gort's face and neck. The horse whickered without moving its head, but the sound was more like a muffled whimper. Gort didn't know a horse could make that sound. Then blue light glowed in Jasbir's hand and Gort watched with amaze as fresh skin and fur crawled across the wound in less than a second, leaving behind only dried and fresh blood matted in the fur.

"How did you do that?" Gort asked stupidly. He scraped blood off his face with his fingers and flicked it to the ground, leaving smears behind on his skin.

"A simple Illusion spell, nothing more," Jasbir said with an indulgent smile. He passed the reigns to Gort, felt his way around the horse until he found the rope connecting them and then his own horse on the end of it. "You do know how to ride, don't you?"

"Well," Gort said uneasily, "How hard can it be? They do the walkin'." He'd never ridden a horse before, but traders visiting the village had come in on horseback often enough that he understood the general idea.

"Quite so," Jasbir responded dryly. "I'm going to change my clothes before we go, if you don't mind the minor delay." Gort held the horse while he waited, listening to the rustle of cloth as Jasbir dug out a new robe and put away the old one. He found it a bit odd that Jasbir would dress in the middle of a public road in plain daylight, but he probably did not want to meet the last Septim while covered in bloodstains. The mannish races were strange about blood, or so Gort had been told. He'd also been told that some humans were so wealthy that they threw away their clothes instead of washing or mending them.

"Alright, ready to go?" Jasbir asked, and Gort turned to see the Breton arrayed in a rich burgundy robe, the sleeves, collar, and front placket trimmed in forest green. But it was Jasbir's position atop the horse that made him look twice- he was not quite in the saddle, but hovering just above it, the end of his robe billowing out as if blown by the wind. He slowly sank into the saddle as Gort watched, the fabric finally relaxing around his ankles.

"How..?"

"Levitation," Jasbir said. "When you get to be my age, it makes a great many things easier. Now hurry and mount up. I want to reach Stonecross _tonight_."

* * *

The sun had nearly set by the time they finally came to Stonecross. The entire village, if one could call it that, was little more than a cluster of buildings in ill repair squatting alongside a single dirt road running parallel to the Panther River. The village could boast a general goods store, a smithy, a tavern that doubled as the only inn, a small chapel, and a lumber mill further down river that they could not see but which Jasbir knew of. The shops and tavern most likely serviced the farmers, trappers, and other rural folk who lived closer to Stonecross than to any other town. A handful of thatched-roof cottages lay past the businesses, spaced far apart with sizable yards and vegetable gardens. A waist high cobblestone retaining wall ran the length of the town but it had fallen to piles of rubble in many places.

Smoke rose from one or two chimneys down the road, but the road itself was deserted. It was obvious where everyone had gone; A short side path lead away from the tavern to a stable and paddock where a few horses stood free, while others were tied directly in front of the tavern still dressed in their tack. Music and boisterous voices carried out into the street from a half-opened window, nearly drowning out the chirping night insects and the nearby river. It was the only two-story structure in the village, although all upstairs windows were dark.

Gort pulled on the reigns as he'd been instructed- a little too hard, prompting his horse to step backward and snort in annoyance, mouthing the bit. The animal shifting beneath him was still disconcerting and Gort was very eager to get off the thing. Gort found that riding was not quite as easy as he expected; it felt as though he would pitch over the side at any moment, especially when he urged the horse into a trot at Jasbir's behest.

"We're here?" Jasbir asked expectantly. Although he made every effort to remain calm, his fingers clenched against the reigns and he could feel his heartbeat picking up speed.

"Yeah," Gort said. "The tavern with the boot on its sign." Muted firelight from the frosted windows and a red glow from the smoldering horizon lit the wooden sign hanging over the door just enough for Gort to make out the picture of a boot overflowing with beer foam, exactly as Jasbir had described.

A young stablehand soon came from the barn to greet them, evidently very excited to meet a pair of strangers. He helped Jasbir to get down from his horse and retrieve both his gnarled walking staff, the end curled into a hook, and his coin purse. The groom had a slew of questions for them, such as where they had come from and what was their business in Stonecross. Jasbir politely cut him off without answering, saying they were tired and eager to get inside. The groom promised to bring up their luggage and the horses were lead away for their well earned rest while Gort and Jasbir climbed the modest slope to the inn. Gort awkwardly lead Jasbir by the arm up the dirt path interspersed with the occasional stone step, waiting for the blind man to tap the steps with his staff before taking them.

Finally at the front stoop, Gort stepped back just in time as the door banged open and a very rotund, ruddy-faced man came tumbling out and into Gort's arms. He clutched the Orc by the elbows, blowing the stench of alcohol into Gort's face as he laughed uproariously, then released the startled boy and stumbled away. Gort watched him stagger down the path, rather like an iron ball picking up speed as it rolled downhill.

"A drunk?" Jasbir asked.

"Yeah," Gort said, and opened the door for Jasbir to go in first.

The small space inside was jam-packed with about forty people, some gathered around a bar to the left, others around a fire to the right, and many more seated at tiny round tables clustered in the center of the room. A staircase at the back lead to an upper level, while an open doorway behind the bar lead to what was obviously the kitchen owing to the sizzle and clink of cooking that came from within. The room buzzed with activity; a pair of musicians brandishing a flute and a mandolin weaved their way through the tables while patrons danced drunkenly in an empty space carved out for their use. The majority were seated, joking with one another over tall glasses of mead and cheap beer. The scent of cooked fish hit Gort like a brick to the face and he realized he was starving.

It was a bit dark at the corners of the room, the fireplace and a trio of low hanging chandeliers providing most of the light. Some tables had been furnished with dim-glowing paper lanterns. Multiple antlers belonging to deer and elk adorned every wall, almost enough animal trophies to rival his father's longhouse, Gort thought. It only lacked the bear and troll skins. Years of trodding feet had worn trails into the wood plank floors, outlining the route the hostess made from table to table.

Slowly, one by one, the conversation at every table died off and it seemed that nearly every glassy eyed face in the room turned to look at the newcomers. The only thing which did not stop was the music and the dancing. Those people were drunk enough that the world could end around them and they probably wouldn't notice.

Gort immediately noted that he was the only Orc present. He could pick out the ashen skin of a couple Dunmer, and the dingy brown scale of an Argonian over by the fire, but other than that... every single occupant belonged to a human race. He nodded uneasily to the staring faces ranging from pink to brown.

A young barmaid came over as soon as she saw them, her loose linen tunic hanging low off her bare shoulders and gathering at her elbows. A red bodice began below her breasts, but the undershirt covered her fully.

"Right this way, gentlemen," she said, turning so fast on her heel that her long green skirt twirled around her. The room was absolutely packed and Gort didn't see how they could be seated until the woman hauled one of the tables away from a pair of men who looked to be farmers. He touched Jasbir's arm to guide him over.

"Turn your chairs around and share a table with Mila and Ontius," she said, handing them their mugs. The men grumbled halfheartedly but complied, and the barmaid pulled over two empty chairs from nearby tables.

"There we are!" she said brightly. "And what'll you have? Dinner? Drinks?" Her cheerful smile faltered when she realized that Jasbir was blind, but she quickly recovered.

"Two meals of whatever is convenient with water, thank you," Jasbir said, and allowed the woman to help guide him to his chair.

"It won't be more than five minutes," she said and was gone just as quickly as she had appeared, scooping up empty mugs from other tables as she went. The other patrons seemed to have lost interest in them and the conversations resumed. The cacophony of blended voices and music closed around them like a veil, offering the privacy to speak freely.

"Is that her?" Gort asked quickly as soon as she was out of earshot, leaning forward to speak in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. "Callista Roderick? The last dragonborn?!" Jasbir set his staff against the table and settled back into his chair, folding his hands in front of him.

"Don't say that in public," Jasbir said, but without reproach. "Describe her to me."

"Uh, I dunno. Short brown hair, tan skinned, about as tall.. well, about five-foot-six."

"Can you be more specific than that? What shade of brown is her hair? Light, dark, reddish? Be _very_ precise."

Gort twisted in his chair to catch sight of her again. She was back from the kitchen with two glasses of water in her hands and made a beeline for their table.

"Anything else?" she asked, bracing her hands on her hips after plopping the glasses down.

"That will be all, just the dinner," Jasbir smiled and nodded. She was off again in a flash.

"Well," Gort said, his eyes following her from table to table. She never seemed to keep still for more than a second, although she was not unfriendly. She talked to the patrons as she passed them, laughing at their jokes and sometimes firing off a quip of her own. "Her hair is very dark brown and it comes down to about her chin. Er... her face is kind of a pointed oval, her forehead is small and covered by bangs.. Her nose is real Imperial-like, I mean not large but it's beaky with a slight bump in the middle. She has a small mouth. I didn't really get a look at her eyes, but she has very dark and kinda bushy eyebrows. Seems to be mid-20s, maybe. She's, well, she's very pretty." Gort didn't want to be caught staring, so he turned away to look back as Jasbir as soon as he was finished with his assessment.

"I see," Jasbir said slowly. "It's probably her. I don't know about you, but I'm famished, so we'll wait until we've eaten to pester her."

Gort's stomach agreed, but he didn't know how Jasbir was keeping himself so composed knowing they were in the presence of a _Septim._ Not only that, but someone Jasbir had seen dead with his own eyes!

"You're going to tell her, right? About the ice attack?"

"No," Jasbir answered quickly, his expression suddenly growing very serious. "And you must not tell her. Do you understand?"

"But-!"

"Imagine how you would feel if you knew that you might be about to die. It could make her act irrationally. People get stupid when they are afraid. Do you understand?"

Gort scowled at the table, tracing the grooves and stains that marred its surface with his eyes while he considered the situation. It wasn't right to lie to her. She deserved to know if she was in danger. But Jasbir did have a point... And so far he seemed to know what he was talking about. Gort had to trust in his judgment.

"I understand," he said sullenly.

Fried fish with diced potatoes and carrots were delivered soon after and all his troubles seemed to fade with the buttery, flaky hot fish that melted on his tongue. Gort hadn't eaten so well in a year. He'd forgotten how simple spices like pepper and garlic could transform a meal so drastically. It brought him back to his yurt, and he could almost hear his mother singing quietly to herself as she sprinkled seasonings into the cooking pot.

Gort was glad that Jasbir could not see his face.

He was pulled from his bittersweet reverie when the young woman came back to pick up their dishes. She had piled their empty plates onto her arm when Jasbir touched his fingers to his glass to block her from taking it.

"Callista Roderick?" he asked. Taken aback, she looked down at him with widened eyes. Hazel brown and flecked with green, Gort noted.

"Yes? Do I know you?" she glanced from the Breton to the Orc. She had noticed the dried smears of blood on his face and neck earlier and had written them off as none of her business, but now the rust-brown marks seemed very pertinent.

"You don't know me," Jasbir said. "But I have something very important I need to talk to you about, in private." The woman named Callista forced a short, derisive laugh.

"I bet you do," she said dryly, and went for his glass anyway. He grabbed her by the wrist.

"Please. It concerns your parentage."

"My parents are dead," Callista snapped, easily breaking her arm away from of the old man's grasp.

"Your father died in the war before you were born and your mother died of illness several years ago. Yes, I know. But there is something about them you do not know, and this I wish to tell you in private. Please. It's very important."

Jasbir remained perfectly calm but insistent as he spoke. Gort said nothing, but looked imploringly at the young woman, silently urging her to heed Jasbir's words. The anger drained from her face leaving only confusion behind and she looked from one to the other, wondering what sort of game they were playing.

"Are you travelers staying the night?" she finally asked, cautiously.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Let me show you to your room upstairs," she said, laying the plates back on the table. They rose to follow her, Gort guiding his blind charge through tables with a hand on his shoulder. Callista picked up a paper lantern along the way and they ascended the staircase into darkness. The upstairs was nothing more than a narrow hallway lined with two doors on either side, all of them shut. Moonlight from a single small window at the end of the hall and the dim yellow glow of Callista's lantern illuminated the space well enough for Gort to navigate. She opened a door at the end of the hall and stepped inside first.

"I _am_ armed," she warned, setting the lantern down on a bedside table and, one by one, dipping the other candles from the room into the lantern to light them from its flame. She set them back in their holders on the bedside table and a dresser along the wall. The bed was a double with a storage chest at its foot. Aside from that there was no other furniture and minimal decoration- just a frayed rug and another pair of antlers over the bed. There was a pot beneath one of a pair of windows but the plant inside had died long ago. Gort stepped to a window and pulled aside the thick curtains, stirring up dust as he did so, and looked out at the dark tract of land below. He could see the river from there, sparkling with reflected starlight. He turned around to see Callista had made her way back to the door and had shut it, standing nearby with her arms crossed over her chest. Jasbir leaned against his cane in the center of the room.

"My name is Jasbir Travere. My aide, Gort. I am a priest of the Order of the Ancestor Moth. Do you know it?"

Callista's brows furrowed and she tilted her head.

"Yes, of course. Are you saying you were blinded by reading the Elder Scrolls?"

Jasbir nodded.

"But your eyes, they look normal."

"Yes. There is nothing physically wrong with them. When you see a blind person with milky eyes, what you're actually seeing are cataracts. This is different.. we don't really understand why reading the Scrolls causes blindness, but I assure you I am truly blind and not faking it. If you wave your hand in my face, I won't flinch."

"No, I'll take your word for it," Callista shrugged. "Go on."

"One of my visions- the most important one of my life, which robbed me of my sight, concerned you, Callista Roderick. I have reason to believe you are the last living member of the Septim bloodline." He allowed a moment for this to sink in before continuing. Callista laughed without humor, looking at Gort with a raised brow as if to ask if this were serious. Gort nodded imperceptibly, so she turned her attention back to the priest. "I saw you in my vision, but of course I did not know your name or any details about you at the time. I saw this place, The Drunken Sole, in my vision as well, which lead my Order to investigate, to learn everything they could about this village and the people who live here. No one could stay to observe Stonecross long-term for fear of altering fate prematurely, but we've been checking in over the years.

"Our researchers painstakingly searched the genealogy of every person in Stonecross and we found something very interesting about the Roderick family. Your great-great-great... hm, suffice to say, your distant ancestor served in White-Gold Castle during the reign of Pelagius Septim IV. Her name was Alexia Liore and she left her position as lady-in-waiting to the king's daughter after becoming pregnant out of wedlock."

Callista scoffed.

"And what does that prove? You think she had Pelagius's child? Maybe she was smitten with the cook."

"It's true, I have no hard proof," Jasbir admitted with a nod. "It's rather unlikely, isn't it? But I saw you in my vision for a reason. I saw this place for a reason. I saw something else in my vision, something which I think may be connected to the Amulet of Kings-" he described the weapon in full detail, and Callista's suspicious expression softened. She shook her head, unable to believe such a wild story.

"What now?" she asked, finally dropping her hands from their defensive position in front of her chest. It was clear that she did not believe and was only asking hypothetically. "If I am the last Septim, what do I do with that information? The Septim dynasty is dead. The Medes rule the Empire now. What's left of it," she added bitterly.

"I'm not precisely sure," Jasbir said with a slight smile. He knew how absurd this must sound to the woman. "We need to find the weapon I saw in my vision, but to be honest I haven't the slightest idea where to look. It would prove your bloodline if you were the only person who could wield it, which I suspect is true. There is a place prepared for you at the monastery. You will be safe there while my Order searches for the weapon."

"Safe?" Callista asked with sudden concern, pushing away from the door she'd been leaning on and approaching Jasbir, although she knew he could not see her. "Safe from what?"

"My dear, I can think of several groups who would prefer to see you dead. The Mede family, for one. We've done our best to keep the knowledge of your existence limited to only a few necessary people, but we all know the Emperor has spies everywhere. And.. there's more."

Jasbir proceeded to recite and explain the prophecy of the last dragonborn for the second time that day. Gort listened, enraptured by the mystery of it all, but his eyes he kept trained on Callista. She bit her thick bottom lip with her front teeth, which were a tad large, as she listened. On anyone else such "rabbit teeth" might have looked goofy, but Gort couldn't help but think how, in conjuncture with her expressive hazel eyes and slightly flushed cheeks, it only made her seem youthful and sweet.

"Alduin is what the Nord's call Akatosh, otherwise known as the 'World Eater.' They believe he will end the world, or even all of time as we know it. I normally would not take much stock in Nordic legends, but in this case... Every other part of this prophecy has come true. It seems as though something important will happen in your lifetime, Callista, something very serious which only you can stop." Jasbir finished his spiel and waited for Callista to process and respond. His face and voice were both very grave, and the way his shoulders sagged it almost seemed to Gort that he was reluctantly readying himself to transfer a horrible weight onto another person. Onto Callista.

"But... how can I stop a god? And how can I alter a fate preordained? If everything else in this prophecy came true, why would the last part be any different?"

"The wording may be very important. The last line says 'The Wold-Eater wakes,' _not_ 'The World-Eater destroys the world.' That means we have a chance."

"Jasbir and I both saw a dragon today," Gort blurted. "Alduin is already awake. That means whatever's going to happen, it will be soon, won't it?"

Jasbir nodded and Callista gasped.

"Drovas... A few days ago he told everyone he'd seen a dragon while hunting. But he's a drunk and an idiot, no one believed him..."

The trio stood in silence for several long moments, Callista staring at the floor with a troubled expression. Gort's heart ached for her. He couldn't imagine what must be going through her mind right now... To discover that the fate of millions of lives lay upon her shoulders, and not even know how to help. She must feel as helpless as Gort did... perhaps less, as Gort knew a horrible thing which she did not.

"These people.. the Polentius family.. They took me in when my mother died and I've been working here at their tavern ever since. I can't just-"

"You can't tell them where you're going or why," Jasbir said softly, cutting off what was beginning to turn into a plea. "If anyone comes looking for you, we can't leave any more clues behind than necessary."

Callista nodded, forcing herself to accept what had to be done. Gort could see in her eyes that she believed Jasbir's story now, strange as it was.

"For a long time I've wanted to join the Fighter's Guild." She smiled sadly. "I've been saving up for it for years... saving up for armor and training. Can I at least leave them a note saying I finally left to join the Guild? At least then they won't worry... Oh, who am I kidding, they'll worry. But it's better than just disappearing."

"Yes, that's a good idea," Jasbir agreed. "Say you're joining the guild in Leyawiin- it might help throw potential pursuers off your trail. I'm sorry, Callista. I know all of this is hard to take in."

"Yeah, well.. I'd better get downstairs, they'll be missing me." Callista turned to go, then paused with her hand on the doorknob. She looked back at them. "After we find this Sword-of-Kings and prove my bloodline... I'll be crowned queen?"

"Yes," Jasbir nodded. "That is the eventual goal."

Callista grinned.

"I think I can live with that." She left, closing the door behind her. Gort sighed and sagged, bracing his palms against the windowsill behind his back.

"What now?" he asked. He was so tired, and that bed looked so plush and warm... but there was only one between the two of them, and Gort wasn't even sure he could sleep with the enormity of their situation pressing down on him.

"Now," Jasbir said with a broad smile, "We're going to find the bathtub and you're going to have a bath."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Physically, he did feel so much better after his bath, pumped and heated for him in a large wooden basin out back by the stablehand. He turned out to be the son of the couple who owned the tavern and Callista's adoptive guardians, although Gort didn't probe further. It was the first time in a year Gort had been able to scrub himself with actual _soap_ rather than sand. It also afforded him a moment to think about the odd situation he'd been thrust into, and Gort found himself growing increasingly anxious. Tomorrow he would _not_ be robbing an innocent traveler and eating bland scraps while listening to J'Dar and the others brag about how much they were going to drink away their stolen gold. Jasbir had rescued him, in a way, and trusted him with information Gort had no right to. But Gort was possibly the only thing standing between Jasbir and Callista and any number of groups who may want to do them harm.

He couldn't even take care of himself. How long before he failed Jasbir, too? Would he be the one to see the death of the last dragonborn, thus dooming the entire world?

The bath began to grow cold. The water had turned black with grime and basking in his own filthy soup was no longer appealing without the muscle-soothing heat, so Gort dried himself and dressed in the spare clothes Jasbir had given him. They belonged to Vinnus, who had obviously been much taller and broader than Gort. It sickened him to wear the clothing of a person he helped murder, but Jasbir insisted on it. Gort's own clothes were filthy and he had nothing else to change into. Tomorrow Gort would don his ragtag armor, tucking the pants into his boots and the sleeves into his gauntlets, both garments secured with a belt around the middle. Hidden by the armor his oversized clothes would not be noticeable at all, but for tonight he would just have to look silly.

Before he fell asleep on a bedroll provided from Jasbir's luggage, Callista came by the room to tell them she would slip out at dawn and wait for them at the edge of town, and they should eat breakfast and leave after daybreak to avoid suspicion. Her room was right next to theirs; she would leave a note there for Juliet and Nero Polentius to find after they all had gone.

* * *

The tavern was nearly empty when Jasbir and Gort came downstairs to eat, and it seemed a totally different place without music and people to fill it. The long shadows cast by the fire were gone, and the wood of the walls and floor seemed bleached of all color by the soft, white light of morning. The middle aged woman who had been working the bar the night before, with her drooping eyelids, looked just as tired as the few patrons slumping over their breakfast. Mrs. Juliet Polentius, Gort assumed.

"We aren't usually so busy, but Fridas night is always like that," she explained. "Now, let's see about some eggs for you two. That Callista! Sleeping in I suppose." She went muttering into the kitchen and Gort heard a man's voice answer in soft tones. Gort looked guiltily to Jasbir, but of course got no reaction from the blind man.

They ate quickly and made little small talk. Jasbir asked that their horses be saddled and ready to go as soon as they finished their meal. He left a handful of coins on the table as they stood to leave, Gort picking up Jasbir's bags just as Juliet came back into the main room.

"Safe travels, friends," she said. "Our little town isn't used to seeing so many new faces, certainly not three in a single night, but I do appreciate the business."

Jasbir froze, looking as if he'd been struck across the face.

"What do you mean, ma'am?"

"It must have been after you went up to bed, then. Another man came in asking for a room, but we've only got the one, so he had dinner and left. Might have spent the night in the chapel, poor soul."

"Gort, we have to leave, _now_." He didn't have to say it twice. Gort could see the fear on the Breton's face. Ignoring Juliet's questioning look, they hurried outside to find their horses tied to the hitching post at the bottom of the slope. It was still early enough that morning damp clung to the grass and a white mist hung over Stonecross like a shroud- Gort could make out the tall steeple of the chapel on the far side of the river, sitting all by its lonesome but connected to the rest of the village by a stone bridge. Aside from someone standing on the porch of the smithy next door, they were alone on the street as far as Gort could see.

Gort quickly loaded the horses with the bags, strapped down Jasbir's staff, and tied the horses together again. Gort could _feel_ the tension in Jasbir's every movement, and although he said nothing more there was an obvious sense of urgency. Gort's heart was pounding in his throat by the time they finally came around the first bend in the road that would allow the forest to conceal Stonecross from view, and he exhaled heavily when he saw Callista sitting atop an attractive bay palfrey at the side of the road, allowing her mount to graze while they waited.

"Took you long enough," Callista said, smiling sleepily. She'd been facing away and wheeled her horse around to greet them, and Gort could immediately tell that she was an experienced rider. She rolled with the movements of the animal and guided it with such precision that she may as well have been walking on her own feet. "This is Cherry. We'd better hurry before they notice she's missing."

Gort could see how the mare had gotten the name; her rich brown fur held an almost reddish tint, which became black from the knee down on all four legs to match the dark mane and tail. Cherry swiveled her black-tipped ears to the newcomers, her nostrils flaring as she took in their scent, but then her ears relaxed and she seemed indifferent.

Callista herself was dressed in a dark green, long sleeved woolen tunic, suede riding gloves, leather boots and black pants. She wore a black traveling cloak with the hood pulled down. Later, when she swept the cloak aside, Gort would notice a rather impressive Imperial longsword hanging from her belt.

"Did anyone see you leave or follow you out?" Jasbir asked sharply. Callista's smile faded and she seemed taken aback by the abrupt question.

"No. I'm sure no one did."

"Alright. Let's hurry on, then, before someone comes looking for you. We should be safe after we hit the main road and take the Northern branch."

Callista nodded and urged her horse into a canter. It took Gort a second to remember how to do the same. By the time he'd matched Callista's speed and gotten Jasbir's horse settled in at the same pace she already had a long lead on them. He braced his hands against the saddle and hunkered low, grinding his teeth as he clenched the reigns in his fists. Gort was sure he would go lurching over the side with every jostling step. Despite the knots in his stomach it never did happen, but he was incredibly relieved when they finally came to the Yellow Road and turned North, when Callista slowed to a walk to give the horses a rest.

She wheeled around then to ride along Gort's side.

"Don't hold the reigns so tight, give him some slack," she said, offering the same bright, friendly smile she had shown in the tavern. Her eyes were a bit red, which didn't surprise Gort considering how late she must have been up tending to patrons.

"Oh, uh, thanks," Gort said, loosening the reigns. He glanced down at the sword hanging from her belt, the wooden scabbard painted Imperial red, the chape gilded with scuffed and dented gold.

"My father's," Callista said without emotion, following his gaze. "I never met him. A Legionnaire brought it home to my mother shortly after I was born. The war ended just a few months later."

"I'm sorry about your parents," Gort said softly. "Your father died honorably." Callista scoffed, although not in a mean way.

"Do you think the Legion are heroes, Gort? They're bullies, and they swear allegiance to a king descended from warlords," she said with muted anger. It was obvious Callista was very passionate about her opinions, but holding back for civility's sake. Jasbir's brows arched at this.

"Most people are happy with the Mede Empire," Jasbir said questioningly. Gort let them talk. He had only a rough understanding of history; knew there'd been a war, but not really over what. The Septim name was legend because of Talos, but beyond that they were all the same to Gort. To Orc thinking, to die in battle was an honor regardless of which cause you fought for. It shocked him that Callista seemed to hold so little respect for her own father.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying the Septim dynasty was any better," Callista said. "They bullied their way into every province and forced Imperial rule where it wasn't wanted, and the secession of the Aldmeri Dominion and the Great War is a direct result of that needless expansionism. But look around you, what have the Medes done for Cyrodiil? We're still rebuilding from the war. People live in poverty." Callista gestured wildly as if the forest illustrated her point. The corner of Jasbir's mouth twitched up in slight amusement.

"And what do you think they should do?" he asked.

"I'll tell you what they should do," Callista said, her voice rising with a fervor Gort could see reflected in her eyes. "It's unforgivable that the Empire has allowed the Mage's Guild to have a monopoly on magickal education for so many centuries. Yes, I know all about Galerion's philosophy and his reason for creating the Guild. I agree with it, but he didn't take it far enough. We consider skills like writing and counting to be a basic mortal right, but alchemy, restoration? The Guild locks away its knowledge behind fees and membership dues."

"The average person does not need to know such things, and those fees are how the mages of the Guild earn their living," Jasbir countered.

"My mother died of a curable illness when I was thirteen," Callista said harshly. "There is no alchemist in Stonecross, and the restorationist at the chapel was not very experienced. He wasted a lot of time with a misdiagnosis and all of his spells were too weak to heal her. By the time someone had gone to Bravil to get help, it was too late. A few years later, I learned how easily my mother's life could have been saved.. Mandrake root, elf cap, and willow flower.. All of them common ingredients I could have picked myself, but without knowing how to extract their magickal properties or the right equipment I couldn't have done anything with them. Do you really think the average person shouldn't have a basic working knowledge of those two schools?"

Neither Jasbir nor Gort could offer an answer for that. Gort looked down, sadly examining his saddle horn and thinking of his own mother. He could understand exactly how Callista felt. The helplessness, the grief..

"As for how those mages will make their living-" she continued. The anger and bitterness had gone from her voice, but the fire remained. It was clear she was not actually mad at Jasbir, but at a world that had wronged her. "The Empire employs many public servants with our tax money, don't they? Our taxes wouldn't need to be spent on war and defense if the Empire would leave alone the provinces that want nothing to do with us. There's no need for people to die in more senseless wars."

"I think that you might have a simplified understanding of military history and strategy," Jasbir said cautiously after a thoughtful pause, although he quickly added, "But you're young, thirsty to try new ideas. It's not a bad way to be. It's a good quality in a leader."

Gort smiled to himself but didn't say anything. If his father had been listening to this conversation, he'd call Callista a soft-headed fool. What kind of leader valued education and health over military strength? Perhaps she was a fool; Gort himself was sure that if any province weakened its army it would be attacked by its neighbor within a week. Nevertheless, he liked the way she thought- she wasn't power hungry, and genuinely cared for the well-being of others. Even if she was wrong, her heart was in the right place.

"I can't believe I might actually be queen." Callista grinned, her hazel eyes large and intense. "To be honest I'm still not sure if I believe your story, but I've been waiting for an adventure my entire life. Even if this is an elaborate scam, at least I'm away from that.. that _place_."

"You seem like you've already given this a lot of thought, even before Jasbir came along," said Gort.

"I have! Who doesn't daydream about ruling the world? Now my dreams have come true and I will usher in a new age of unprecedented peace and prosperity." Callista thrust up her chin and spoke in a mockingly regal tone, looking playfully down her nose at Gort.

"You do realize that your existence may be the catalyst for war?" Jasbir asked gently. "The Medes will not give up the throne easily, even with proof of your heritage."

Gort watched Callista's face fall, her joyful manner completely collapsing. Her shoulders slumped, horrified shock filling her eyes before she dropped her head to look away.

"...But..."

"Our main objective is diverting the Alduin prophecy," Jasbir said. "Don't worry too much about the throne for now. Besides, there may be peaceful solutions. Marrying into the family, for example."

Callista frowned deeply at that, obviously displeased with the idea, but she said nothing more.

Thick fog rolled off both the Niben Bay to their left and from the Silverfish River which lay further ahead. Aside from morning birdsong the world lay calm and quiet, almost dormant. Condensation from the fog had gathered on Gort's armor and clung to his skin, making him uncomfortably sticky. One thing he hated the most about the region was the humidity, something he'd never experienced in Skyrim. The morning was already beginning to warm up and it wouldn't be long before the fog evaporated to choke the air with moisture.

"Someone's coming," Jasbir said suddenly. Gort strained to listen but heard nothing. Callista snapped out of her melancholia to glance over her shoulder, eyes alert.

"Get off the road, into the forest! Hide!" Jasbir hissed. It was then that Gort heard it himself; a single set of hooves pounding road from behind them. Callista had already turned Cherry toward the forest and was now crossing the strip of tall grass and brush that ran alongside the road. Gort turned to follow and as he did looked back to see the silhouette of a horse thundering out of the mist. The rider was arrayed head to toe in mithral chain armor, including a coif which obscured everything but a pink human face. It was too late to hide.

"Jasbir!" Gort screamed, his leg already swinging over the horse. He dropped to his feet, steel boots clinking against greaves as he landed, and yanked the axe from his belt. His horse whickered at the sudden movement and stepped aside. He heard Callista draw her own sword and Jasbir shouting at her to run for cover. The horseman was fifty feet away when he flung out his arm to hurl a ball of green light at the Orc. Gort threw himself aside to avoid it, but the man had anticipated his movement and the spell engulfed him fully, washing across his skin like cold water and leaving a prickling sensation behind.

 _Am I poisoned?!_ Gort's breath caught in his throat as he rolled to his knees and stood. He expected to drop dead at any moment, but the spell didn't appear to have had any effect on him other than that strange sensation. Jasbir had been in the process of dismounting when the same spell hit his back, and Gort could see a sickly green glow engulfing his body. From the corner of his eye Gort could see the same thing on his own gauntlets.

In a matter of seconds the horseman had closed the gap between them, banked sharply around Gort toward Callista and sprung from his horse to an unnatural height, a swirl of purple magicka at his feet holding him aloft. The horse galloped on without him. Sinister red light burst from his palm and the air around his hand distorted from the heat, a black shape framed in flames resolving into view. His hand closed around the hilt of an ebon sword, steel so black that it had surely been forged in the fires of Oblivion, glowing red runes scrawled hotly across its length. All of this happened in a single moment while the man seemed suspended in air above Callista, who stared up in utter shock, and then he came crashing down with the full force of gravity. Callista threw up her sword to block the attack with one hand braced against the flat of the blade. Sparks flew as steel met steel and the assailant dropped on top of the girl, unhorsing her. They tumbled down together and Callista cried out as her back hit the ground hard. Cherry spooked and dashed away with a squeal.

"Silenced! Silenced!" Jasbir was shouting. Gort didn't hear him. He ran for the man, yanked him back by the shoulder. The human slashed at Gort's chest as he was flung aside, blade biting through Gort's leather cuirass. Orc and assassin both stumbled back to catch their balance as Callista scrambled to her feet and turned to face them. The man lurched for Callista and at the same time a burst of fire exploded from his off hand at Gort, the force of the blast knocking him back onto the ground. Pain seared his neck and the lower half of his face as the horrible heat engulfed him and Gort screamed without realizing that he was. The flames died quickly after the initial burst but agony remained, the stink of his own charred flesh filling his nostrils.

Gort looked up through the smoke to see the man slashing savagely and with movements so quick that Gort's eye could barely follow it, forcing Callista back against the wall of trees. A flurry of legs and hooves moved behind him as the startled horses pranced away from the fighting and spellfire. He did not see Jasbir or know what the priest was doing but he could see that Callista was barely holding her own against the man, was blocking him clumsily and would fail any minute.

The burns on his face and neck were excruciating. Gort moaned as he rolled over, his fingers closing around the axe he had dropped in the grass. He shoved himself to his feet just as Callista went down over a tree root. Callista held up her sword with both hands to shield her face; the assassin kicked her hand hard, sending the weapon flying. Gort staggered toward them, his vision blurred by numbing pain. Callista kicked at the man and screamed when his conjured blade stabbed down, pinning her leg to the ground. Fire blazed in his palm just as Gort's axe slammed into the back of his head, dull axe blade meeting mithral and a padded hood below but providing a satisfying crack as the force of the blow split skull. He dropped on top of Callista who was still screaming, but the sword pinning her flesh evaporated in a wisp of black smoke.

"Get down!" Jasbir screamed. Gort turned, saw the staff in Jasbir's hands and threw himself down on Callista and the corpse just as fire exploded against the trees with a thunderous boom, flakes of burning bark and leaf showering their bodies as intense heat washed over Gort's back. He screwed shut his eyes against the light and then it was over. Callista sobbed below him and Gort rolled off, yanking the dead man with him.

"Jasbir, heal her," he croaked, and closed his eyes. He was vaguely aware of shuffling sounds as Callista wrestled herself into an upright position. The blind man found them by sound and touch, stumbling across the road and through the grass to the trees where they lay. He could hear Callista gasp in relief as her wound closed. A moment later he felt refreshingly cool magicka flow across his own skin, erasing the pain. His eyes fluttered open and he touched his face to find smooth, perfect skin. Callista was behind him on her knees, pulling at his shoulders to raise him. Gort sat up under his own power and looked at Jasbir kneeling before him, the old man's face contorted in anguish.

"Jasbir, he's dead and we're both fine," Gort breathed. The Breton's expression relaxed only slightly. The world was utterly quiet now; even the birds had fled. In stark contrast with the booming fireball just a minute before, the silence was almost eerie.

"You saved my life, Gort," Callista said softly, and Gort twisted around to look at her. Her large hazel eyes were wet, her face speckled with black ash that stuck to her tears. "Thank you." She braced her fists against her thighs and looked down so that her short brown hair fell over her face, almost as if she were ashamed. She took a loud, shuddering breath.

"It's alright," Gort said, smiling weakly. It was the first real combat he'd ever been involved in, and to be honest he was quite shaken, but he could see that the others were very upset as well. He stood, pulling Jasbir and Callista up with him by their arms. "Everyone's alive, right? That's all that matters. But next time, Jasbir, maybe you shouldn't be throwin' magicka around when you can't see what you're aiming for..." He said it lightheartedly but Jasbir still seemed pained by what had happened.

"I'm sorry. Did it hit either of you? What happened?"

"No, it didn't hit us. The man was already dead. But like Gort said, we're all alive," Callista said shakily, and Gort thought she was trying to reassure herself as much as Jasbir. She turned to find her sword and Gort stooped to pick up his axe. Blood was visible beneath the man's mithral hood, seeping across the underarmor padding. He was rolled onto his side, eyes staring blankly at nothing. He didn't really seem dead, nor did he look as though he'd died in pain. Gort thought that they should check for a pulse just to be sure, but he didn't want to touch the corpse. It seemed that Jasbir had the same idea, however; he knelt and stuck his fingers under the padding on his neck.

"Dead," Jasbir announced. He began to pat down the body and feel across the hands searching for a signet ring or some other token of identity, but as he suspected he found nothing.

"Who is he?" Callista asked after retrieving her sword from the forest floor and sliding it into its scabbard.

"I don't know." Jasbir stood and tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe, thoughtfully considering the body. "Could be an agent of the Medes, could be someone else I haven't thought of. But this is very bad. The fact that he attacked now and not earlier probably means he intercepted Vinnus's orders. And that means the monastery isn't safe for you. I have to think about where I can take you..."

Callista leaned heavily against a tree, supporting her weight with her arm.

"I can't believe this just happened," she said. She was staring down at the man with wide eyes, her face surprisingly flushed. Gort couldn't believe it either. He looked down at the axe in his hands, the edge scuffed from years of use but untainted by blood, as if it hadn't really happened at all. But then he followed Callista's gaze to the dead man and felt his stomach clench.

"Come on," Gort said, taking Callista by the arm to guide her to the road. "Let's get out of here."

As soon as they emerged from the trees, Cherry came trotting over to Callista and nosed her hair with a questioning whicker. Luckily, the other horses had not gone far either, and impassively watched them from a few feet away. The assassin's horse was nowhere in sight. Callista smiled and closed her eyes as she nuzzled her face against Cherry's velvety nose, embracing her head with both hands.

"My house isn't far from here," Jasbir spoke with a heavy, thoughtful frown that deepened the lines of his face. "I have documents there that must not fall into enemy hands.. We moved all records of your existence out of the Imperial library to protect you from the Medes, and most went with me. But my location is known to the monastery, so someone may be waiting there to ambush us. It's not safe for Callista to go. I don't know what to do about this."

Her cheek still pressed against Cherry, Callista's eye slid open to solemnly watch the others. Gort met her gaze.

"I'll go," Gort said. He hoped that his face and voice were as stoic as he meant to be, because inside he was quaking. "I'm expendable compared to you two. We'll find a hiding place for you in the forest, I'll go ahead and collect whatever it is, then come back to you."

"No, Gort.." Callista began, pulling away from her horse to face him. But Jasbir nodded.

"Burn the house. It's the easiest way. There are things hidden throughout and we haven't time for you to search. I'll give you my staff."

"You can't go alone," Callista huffed, crossing her arms over her chest with adamance. Gort smiled weakly.

"Jasbir never told you how we met, did he? I'm not with his Moth cult, I'm just some lout who tried to rob him on his way to find you. The guys I was with murdered his real assistant, then the dragon attack broke everything up, and when we met on the road again later Jasbir gave me the job out of desperation. My life isn't worth two drakes, but yours is worth the world. I have to go. I _want_ to go."

Callista stared at him, seemingly unruffled by his admission. Sadness and defeat were the only emotions Gort could discern in her eyes.

"Come," Jasbir said gently. "We need to hurry."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Gort followed the backroad to Jasbir's cottage, little more than a deer trail. He'd left Callista and the priest near a cave deep enough in the forest that no one using life sensing magicka would be able to see them. Unless an assassin decided to take a walk through the woods at that particular spot, they were safe. He followed Jasbir's instructions to take the Yellow Road until he came to the Silverfish River, and then take the unmarked road to the East. Jasbir's house was the only one along the path, meaning he couldn't possibly burn down another home by accident.

It was a few hours past noon by the time he finally came to it, a little cabin that couldn't house more than two or three rooms smack dab in the middle of a peaceful glade by the river. He would have known it was Jasbir's house in any case, as the priest had set up a guidance system to lead him to the forest for wood gathering- sticks driven into the ground with twine attached created multiple lines radiating away from the house.

Gort tied his horse to a tree near the river before ascending the slight slope to the house itself, figuring the horse might not like to stand next to the raging fire he was about to create. Dread clenched in his belly as he approached, half expecting a small army of assassins to spill out the front door at any moment. Gort had to remind himself over and over again of Jasbir's words: _It's very unlikely anyone would come to the house, but we have to act cautiously just in case._

He paused on the bottom step of the porch to examine an old rocking chair. A wicker basket filled with onions sat nearby, as well as a few glasses with a last sip of tea still in the bottom. Gort could only imagine that Jasbir must have spent a good deal of time sitting there, peeling potatoes or whatever else from the rather large garden Gort could see around the side of the house. He thought of going inside to see how the blind priest had lived, but the idea of looking at his personal affects just before they burned saddened Gort and he decided not to go in.

"Well, here goes," Gort said, and aimed Jasbir's staff at the front door. He'd never used an enchanted object before, but he remembered Jasbir's instructions... He could feel the gentle pulse of magicka in his hands, very subtle but just enough that Gort almost felt he was touching a living thing. The staff must become an extension of himself in the same way his axe became an extension of his arm.

He felt the magicka surge beneath his hand and fire erupt from the end of the staff, heating Gort's face for a moment before it exploded against the wall of the house. He turned and pointed to the next spot, and the next.

 _ **Boom. Boom. Boom.**_

Flames roared at the front of the house. Gort stepped down from the porch to head around back to start a fire there as well. It probably wasn't necessary, the fire had already grown such that Gort could feel the immense heat of it even from where he stood and his eyes watered from the smoke, but Gort would be very thorough as Jasbir instructed.

Gort froze when the rear end of a horse came into view- his heart chilling over as if dipped in cold water. Then he ran forward, rounded the corner to see for sure. The house had a back door and a small step leading down, and two horses were tied to the rail. They tossed their heads and pulled at the reins that bound them, grunting uneasily with large, wild eyes.

Spellfire hit his back and a prickling sensation similar to the silence spread through Gort's body. With it, his limbs grew heavy as if from extreme exhaustion. He inhaled a lungful of black smoke and coughed weakly as the staff slipped from his limp fingers. His eyes had closed before Gort even crumpled to the ground.

He was aware of being dragged and handled but it was all very far away, as if he were half-asleep and couldn't wake up despite annoying sounds that commanded his attention. Someone was removing his armor. He heard it clank as each new piece was thrown onto a pile. His mind screamed at him to move, his fingers and toes twitched feebly, but other than that his muscles refused to answer. Sometimes his eyes slipped open and he saw flashes of color before they closed again. He felt that same prickling sensation several times as his assailants renewed the spell, felt rope being pulled tight around his body.

His heart was the only part of him that seemed to respond appropriately. It thundered against his ribcage, in his ears, a resounding drum that would not be ignored. By the time he felt his vitality return it was too late; Gort was laying on his side on the ground, ropes binding his thighs, ankles, and arms, his hands tied behind his back. His eyes flew open as soon as they were able and he growled up at his captors baring his teeth and short tusks.

Two Altmer faces scowled down at him, both in matching black robes with stiff, flaring shoulders, their hoods pulled back. Gold thread trimmed the lapels and edges creating an impression of authority. Shortswords bound in black leather scabbards and utility pouches hung from their belts. The one, slightly taller than the other, wore his long silver hair loose. It fell across his shoulders at either side of his sharp-angled face. The other wore his shorter blonde hair in the ridiculous swept back, heavily oiled style, his high forehead punctuated with a dramatic widow's peak. They both looked down their nose at Gort as if he were garbage. He could see the fire raging a hundred feet away- they had dragged him to the edge of the forest, their horses now tied nearby. His armor lay in a pile behind their feet, leaving Gort naked but for his ill-fitting clothes. Silver-hair held Jasbir's staff, while Gort's axe lay in the pile with his armor.

They exchanged a few words in Altmeris. When they turned back to him, it was the blonde-haired mer who spoke in Cyrodiilic.

"Why did you burn the house? To destroy this?" He reached inside his robe and pulled out a leather bound journal stuffed with loose papers, clenching it tightly in his gloved hand. He smiled cruelly as Gort's face fell.

He'd failed and now he would die on the ground like a dog. He trembled in rage and fear.

"Vosh ne tehk," Gort spat, imploring them to get fucked in Orsimer. He knew he'd be tortured and interrogated now, but perhaps if they thought he could not speak Cyrodiilic they would kill him sooner rather than later. Perhaps Callista would have a chance..

"With who, your mother? I'm sorry, but my kind frown on bestiality." Silver-hair answered in the same language, then switched back to Cyrodiilic. "We heard you speak before you set the fire. Don't play stupid with us, boy, or you'll suffer much more than you need to."

His heart was still pounding so quick and so loud that Gort was sure they must be able to hear it. He scowled at them, trying not to break under their threat, but sweat was already running down his face. He blinked away a drop that hit his eye. He was sure he must be as pale as a Nord. His hands clenched spasmodically in fear, the rope biting into his wrists. He twisted on the ground, raising his upper body to look the Altmer in the eyes.

"I don't care what you do to me. I won't talk. Every second you waste on me is a second they get farther away," he said through gritted teeth. A sharp, pointed-toe boot slammed into his mouth, snapping his head back, pain blooming on his mouth and nose. He grunted and hot blood poured from his broken nose, from his split lip. Gort understood the expression "seeing stars." He blinked against the lights that flashed in his eyes and looked up at the Altmer, blurred by his own tears. He'd rocked onto his back with the force of the kick.

"At least now we know that they're hiding nearby. You truly are nothing more than a stupid beast, aren't you? If you don't know how to lie, you shouldn't try. I offer you this free advice as a token of good will," smirked Blonde, who had kicked him. Gort spat out a chipped piece of tooth and let his head fall against the ground. He was almost proud of himself that he didn't whine, because the pain was truly unimaginable. He'd learned never to cry when his half-brothers attacked or beat him. Such a thing would dishonor him so much more than simply losing a fight.

"Don't hold back now," Gort croaked. He almost laughed at the sound of his own voice; stuffy, as if he had a cold, and it quivered weakly. His entire body quivered. He closed his eyes but tears leaked past the lids, mingling with the blood. He tasted copper and salt and Gort knew he was going to die. He didn't want to die. His life had never been worth anything but now that it was ending, he wanted it! His hands were falling asleep from laying on them. His arms and face hurt. A horrible dread the likes of which he had never known spasmed through his gut and every limb, making his muscles clench.

 _Please! Malacath, Mother, Father, I don't want to die!_

Something stabbed into his belly. Gort's eyes popped open and he gasped at the sharp pain, realized he'd only been hit with the butt of the staff and not a bladed weapon, but he immediately curled up and rolled onto his side. A pathetic attempt to shield his belly from harm like a woolly bear rolling up.

"Oh, but we will," one of them said. Gort didn't know, didn't care who. "We have all the time in the world."

* * *

Callista sat huddled at the mouth of a cave, her back pressed against the rock wall, knees drawn up and arms clasped around them. The last vestiges of daylight filtered through the dense forest, slivers of red, orange and gold casting the forest in warm tones. Fallen leaves and dead vegetation littered the forest floor and Callista heard rustling as the horses restlessly nosed through it for something to eat.

Jasbir had insisted she not go deep into the cave, although he refused to explain that it was because he'd seen her dead on a stone floor in his vision. The stone had been smooth as if hand-carved rather than part of a natural formation, but Jasbir didn't want to risk it. A fire had been out of the question as well, the light and smoke too apt to draw attention. Beneath the shade of the canopy it was growing almost uncomfortably cool with the setting of Magnus.

"He's not coming back." Callista raised her head to a twittering in the air above them to see a flurry of dark shapes scattering through the treetops. The bats were already out and it would be night soon. Jasbir said it was only an hour and a half ride to his home. Gort should have returned by now.

"It's starting to seem that way. How dark is it?" Jasbir asked tiredly. He was sitting on a fallen log across from her.

"Sun's setting now. Jasbir, this is crazy. How long are we going to sit here? We have to go after him!"

"Callista, you know that isn't possible," Jasbir snapped, renewing an argument they'd been having again and again over the last hour. He ran a hand through his thin hair in frustration. "If he hasn't come back by now it means he's probably dead and there's no way we can help them. Either way we can't risk your life. You're too important."

"Why?!" Callista stood abruptly, her fists clenched in tight balls at her sides. "My life isn't worth more than anyone else's just because of who I'm related to! That's a bunch of nonsense designed to keep power in the hands of a single family and keep the peasants in line!" Her voice had risen to an almost shrill scream and Jasbir hushed her, but she continued, throwing her hands over her eyes and half-shouting. "I'm nobody! Nobody! I can't let someone else die because of me..."

Jasbir stood and came to her side, putting his arm around her shoulder.

"It's not about your blood. It's the prophecy. Which is more important, a single life or the life of everyone on Nirn?" He spoke gently, but Callista pushed him away and stepped out of his grasp.

"This isn't right. He risked his life for me. I'm going Jasbir, and you can't stop me." She stalked to the horses, unbound Cherry's reigns from a low branch and had hauled herself up the saddle leaving Jasbir to stagger helplessly after her, bracing his palms against trees.

"Callista, please!"

"You can either get on your horse and come with me or I'll leave you here. Decide now." Her voice trembled with rage and desperation, but also an unshakable determination that Jasbir knew he could do nothing to stop. He bashed his fist against the tree he clung to, rough bark biting into his skin.

"Divines take you, Callista!" He leaned against the trunk, heaving angry, shaking breaths, imagining his entire life's work and purpose crumbling to ashes around him. He lifted his head to glare in her direction. "I'll go. But you'll follow my orders. Do you understand?"

"The dragonborn doesn't have to take orders from anyone... but I'll consider them if they make sense. Thank you, Jasbir. Please hurry."

After Jasbir's mount had been tied to hers the pair rode swiftly, crashing through the brush like hounds for a fox as they made for the cabin and, likely, their deaths.

* * *

"There's three of them... wait... One has to be Gort. He's laying down and not moving at all," Callista spoke in a hushed half-whisper, crouching low amid the dense vegetation of the forest. Their horses they had abandoned thirty minutes ago in favor of approaching the cabin on foot, through the forest rather than the road. They had been able to smell smoke even before then, and when the wind shifted the occasional wisp of gray blew into their faces. The cabin had surely burned, was still burning. It was probably a blackened skeleton by now, but a fire that large might smolder overnight.

No shadows fell upon the strangely lit world, as if every object were illuminated from all sides by an invisible source, even though the sun had set nearly two hours ago. The sky remained pitch black, which almost made it seem as though it were one of those clear nights when the moons were uncommonly bright, except for the faint lavender tint of magicka that washed across her field of vision. The night eye and detect life spells had been provided by Jasbir, but he had to renew them every five minutes, a slow drain on his magicka. He had taken a small carrying bag from his mount, which contained a few potions and hunkered down behind Callista, his hand clenching the strap.

Callista saw blue, vaguely humanoid shapes moving ahead, the soul energies flickering like fire. It was very hard to tell the distance and orientation of the bodies, as she could not see the people themselves. But the clearing around Jasbir's home lay some fifty feet ahead, meaning the people were at least that distance away from them. One flame, dimmer and smaller than the others as if ready to be snuffed out, lay close to the ground and was not moving while the others paced restlessly around it. They could hear voices raised as if in argument, but could not make out the words.

"Perhaps we can take them out one at a time, if we can get one to walk over here while the other guards the prisoner," Jasbir whispered. "You have to stay behind me and yell when he's in range so I can fire."

"I don't know..." Callista said. "That puts you directly in his line of sight. They might attack first."

"There's no other way," Jasbir said. "I know no spells that would let us ambush them... invisibility, chameleon... I will hang against a tree so that I can duck behind it quickly. It's the best we can do. Remember, you must stay close behind me. If they use life detect it will appear as if we are one, and perhaps help to lower their guard. I will crouch so you can see over my shoulder." Jasbir maneuvered himself into position by touch, finding a broad tree to kneel beside, his left hand wrapped around the trunk so that he could pull himself behind it quickly. Callista stood in a half-crouch behind him, her hand on his shoulder.

"Now what?" Callista whispered.

"Scream. They want to find you. A female voice will surely catch their attention." Jasbir touched his right hand to the fingers on his shoulder, renewing both spells for Callista. They would probably not have another chance, and when the spell ran out she would be near enough to blind in these dark woods.

Callista screamed, the shrill noise piercing the stillness of the forest. Sleeping birds shook the upper limbs as they scattered in fright and leaves crunched beneath the running feet of some distant animal. The two lights paused immediately and after a second of hesitation, _both_ ran toward their position.

"Damn," Callista whispered. "Both on their way." She shrank down behind Jasbir, only her head visible over his shoulder, so close that she nearly pressed against his back. Jasbir frowned as he concentrated, listening for the sound of their trodding feet, his right hand curled against his chest and fingers poised to form the sign that would call forth his spell. Callista watched the spectral blue lights grow larger and clearer, saw the dark shapes of their physical bodies weaving through the trees. A ball of light flew up from the duo to catch in the branches, washing the scene below in its pale, yellow-white glow. She reached forward over his shoulder to grab Jasbir's sleeve, yanking his hand in their direction.

"Now!"

Blinding white light ripped from the priest's hand, arcs of electricity reaching like twisted fingers to grab at the Altmer. The first was struck just as green magicka bloomed and died unspent in his hand. The mer convulsed where he stood, his long silver hair burning and smoking as the cage of lightning enveloped his body. Patches of robe and skin alike blackened where the lightning touched. When the light had faded the second Altmer was already dodging around his still-twitching companion, flinging a spike of ice at the priest. Callista yanked Jasbir aside as the spike splintered against the edge of the trunk, shards of ice shrapnel catching him on the temple.

Jasbir yelped as he fell across the raised roots of the tree. The electrocuted Altmer finally dropped, his black-charred body still jerking and smoking even though the blue light had been utterly extinguished. The blonde-haired Altmer rounded the trunk to get at them, the green light of a silence spell streaming from his hand just as Jasbir twisted on the ground and flung up a shield of shimmering magicka. The twisting swirls of silencing magicka bashed against the nearly translucent wall and rebounded on the caster. Callista drew her sword and slashed at the mage in one fluid movement, forcing him to jump back as he drew his own shortsword. He glared down at his hands and the sickly green glow that washed over his body courtesy of his own spell.

Jasbir's temple was bleeding, the heat of the liquid melting crystals of frost that clung to his scalp. He sagged against the ground on his forearm. The lightning blast had taken over half of his magicka and the reflect had finished the drain. His fingers sought the bag of potions that hung at his hip.

The lavender-tinged light and the blue soul-fire faded as she drove the Altmer back toward the clearing. The light spell cast earlier still lit the forest from its place in the treetops, a false sun of no heat. Callista's sword had the greater reach and she was effectively pushing him back with every slash, hoping to trip him on a root as the earlier assassin had done to her, but she realized with horror that he was toying with her. He blocked her strikes with experienced ease or twisted gracefully aside to avoid her. He was waiting for the silence to end so he could ensnare her with whatever spell he'd cast on Gort; he wanted her alive. He answered her furious scowl with a faint smile and nod just before she slashed at his head. He danced aside and kicked her left knee hard from behind. She went down on her knees, knuckles of her weapon hand slamming into the ground as she caught herself. Callista threw herself sideways just as the pointed boot came for her skull and she slashed up wildly from the ground, her blade catching his thigh. The Altmer howled and stumbled, his back hitting a tree. His robe had been slashed down the front and blood sprung from the slit in his pants and flesh.

From her awkward position on her back Callista had not been able to use much force and the wound was shallow, but it had bought her time. Jasbir rolled onto his knees and cast aside the empty bottle of magicka restorative, his open palm facing the direction of the Altmer's voice.

The blonde-haired Altmer's eyes locked with Callista's, and in that brief moment she saw pure rage burn in his black eyes. The green glow faded, he snapped his fingers and disappeared in a cloud of magickal vapor just as lightning struck the tree, blowing off chunks of bark and leaving behind a smoking patch of scorched wood.

"He's gone!" Callista shouted. She pushed herself to her feet, sheathing her weapon as she ran back to Jasbir, helped him stand and guided him to the clearing. The Altmer's light had faded but she no longer really needed it when they stepped out of the forest. Unfiltered moon and starlight were enough to see the immobile shape heaped in the tall grass further ahead. The pair broke into an awkward run, banging against each other with their arms linked as Jasbir's tired joints fought to keep up.

"Gort! Gort!" Callista cried. She let go of the priest and dropped to her knees at the Orc's side. He lay on his belly with his head turned to the side, seeming so much smaller in his baggy clothes and out of his armor. His face was hidden beneath his hair, matted and plastered to his skin by his own drying blood. Callista sawed through the rope on his hands with a small fishing knife from her belt and rolled him onto his back as Jasbir dropped down beside her. She gasped at what she saw.

His face was nearly unrecognizable, a conglomerate of black bruises and angry red cuts. Dirt and grass speckled the blood that had poured from multiple gashes on forehead, cheek, and chin. His lip had been split, both eyes appeared swollen shut, and his nose was somehow flatter. Dark crusts of dried blood trailed from both nostrils.

"Oh Divines-!" she sobbed.

"It's okay, he's just unconscious," Jasbir said, laying his hands on the Orc and feeling both warmth and movement from his shallow breathing. A gentle blue light glowed beneath Jasbir's palms and the gashes slowly pulled shut, unseen broken bones clicked back into place. Internal damage like concussions were harder to heal so Jasbir cast the spell once more to be sure the Orc was fully recovered.

"Gort, do you hear me?" Callista asked urgently, cupping his cheeks in her palms and leaning in close. His eyes fluttered open and the yellow-irised orbs rolled up and around, disoriented. He reached up with one hand to touch the warmth on his face, but the rope around his upper arms stopped him.

"Callista?" he groaned. She nodded, her eyes welling with tears, and withdrew to give him space. He tried to sit up but the ropes restricted his movement.

"Let me cut you free," Callista whispered, knowing her voice would crack if she tried to speak normally. Her hands and knife were blurred by tears as she worked to saw the ropes. Jasbir sat up stiffly on his knees, grimacing slightly as if in pain.

"What happened, Gort?" he asked.

"I failed, Mister Travere," Gort rasped, closing his eyes against the field of stars above. His voice had grown hoarse from hours without water and severe blood loss. "They snuck up behind me after I burned it, but one of them already got a book from inside." Callista finished cutting the ropes at his feet and moved back, sheathing her knife. He sat up and rubbed his wrists where the rope had cut into him painfully for hours. The rope burns were gone along with the cuts and bruises, but his hair, skin and clothes were still crusted with blood. The absence of pain now was almost pleasurable, but inside he felt numb. Empty. Defeated.

The three sat silently for a moment, each avoiding the gaze of the others, each feeling that he or she had done poorly. Callista closed her eyes against the tears that continually streamed from her eyes without her consent, her hands clenching in the fabric of her pants.

"I can't do this," she finally whispered, barely audible even in the stillness of the night. Gort looked up at her, confused. She continued in a trembling voice, "No one else can be hurt because of me. I can't do it."

"These events were set into motion before you were born. People may die for you, because of you, but to do nothing may bring more death and destruction than accepting your role in it ever would," Jasbir said firmly, but not unkindly. Gort didn't know what to say. No one had ever cried in front of him before. Orcs did not cry or admit weakness so openly. He wanted to take her hand, to tell her it wasn't her fault, but he was frozen. He didn't have the words or the resolve to say them. And he was so very, very tired.

For hours they had beat him. Stabbed him. Taunted him. Healed him and started all over again. He had cried, wailed, begged for them to stop, told lies that they never believed. He'd lost all respect for himself. He'd been so close to giving her up when they finally knocked him unconscious- not on purpose, most likely. How could he comfort her when he'd come so close to betrayal?

It was Jasbir who reached out to find her hand, taking it into his own.

"Come, child, we have to get out of here. I believe I hear horses nearby. Will you check their bags? Water and food for Gort, and any kind of identifying items you can find. It would be very helpful to know who they worked for." He released a spell against her hand again, granting night eye for a while more.

The Altmer's two horses were tied up at the forest's edge and were half-asleep but occasionally shifted, jingling their reigns. Gort's armor and Jasbir's staff lay in a pile nearby. In the center of the clearing stood the charred rubble that had been Jasbir's home for over ten years. Smoke continued to slowly billow out from beneath the collapsed roof as the insides smoldered. The scent of burning wood was almost pleasant, recalling memories of cooking fires and the accompanying meals for each of them.

It was a bitter ending to an era, a chapter of his life forever closed. But Jasbir had not expected to return. The cabin was nothing more than a temporary outpost meant to keep him close to Callista for the time when he was needed. If he ever survived the fulfilling of the prophecy, he had always intended to live out the rest of his days in the monastery, tending to the Ancestor Moths for which his cult had been named. It was the proper of order of things.

"Give me my staff if it's here," Jasbir said to Gort after Callista had mutely stood to do as he asked. They three were mentally and physically exhausted, burdened with the blackest despair- none so much as Gort, he was sure, but there was no stopping now. Time marched forward without mercy and Jasbir intended to be miles from here when the dawn finally broke.

* * *

They were much less than a mile away when the Altmer reappeared near a stain of Orcish blood on the grass where he had set his mark hours before. With a flick of his wrist he cast detect life and scanned the area, finding only small animals and his own horses left to roam freely. He caught one of the beasts by the halter, leaving the other, and walked toward the ruined cabin. He looked to the river to see that the horse which had been tied there earlier was gone.

The mage and the girl had snuck through the forest coming in, but Nilaryal doubted they would avoid the road now that the danger seemed to have passed. He cast two spells on his steed; one to muffle his hooves, a second to bolster his speed, and he set off to follow the road West in the hopes they would try to make for Bravil.

It was not long before he saw three blue shapes far ahead in the dark- six in actuality, but horse and rider blurred together to create the illusion of a centaur. Nilaryal smiled and hung back. He'd found them. That was enough for now.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Callista's eye slid toward the sound of the door creaking open, her lips stretching into a thin smile as Gort entered the room with a shallow basket in hand. He'd dressed in his armor again and had washed his face in the river the night before, but dried blood still clumped in his hair. She was sitting in a chair by the wall, her arm draped across the back, and had been turned to look out between the gaps of the boards nailed over the only window. The pane had broken and despite the cool air blowing in from outside the young woman had been practically glued to the spot all morning as if anxious for the fresh air.

"The Khajiit gave me these scones when I asked if breakfast would be served, but I think they might actually be rocks," he said, shutting the door behind himself and tilting the basket for her to see. He picked one up, tossing it in the air one-handed. "You'd die if this caught you in the temple."

Callista smirked and turned to fully face him, pulling up the bag that was laying beside her feet onto her lap.

"That's alright, we've still got more of those Altmer field rations."

Jasbir lay snoring gently on the only bed of the room, one of several on the top floor of a seedy little inn. They spoke quietly so as not to wake him. They had spread out their bed rolls on the floor- there wasn't any other furniture in the room aside from Callista's chair, not even drapes for the window or a bedside table, and only a paper lantern on the floor. The bed had looked rumpled and unclean so they had each slept on top of the covers when it was his or her turn to sleep, while the others stood guard or dozed on the floor. It was close to noon now, bands of yellow light from the haphazardly boarded window falling across the floor.

It had been just before sunrise when the three travelers finally reached Bravil. Eschewing the classier inn directly by the main gate, the obvious choice for a pursuer to check, they made their way through twisting back roads into the poverty-stricken heart of the city. Several neighborhoods had burned during the war and much of it had not been rebuilt. The streets were surprisingly active for five in the morning- ragged faces peered out from alley mouths, whispering gibberish to themselves. Several barely coherent beggars approached them for handouts before a growl from Gort sent them staggering back to their holes. They passed through full streets in which not a single building still stood, squatters tending fires amid the charred remains.

The inn they selected was an old structure that had somehow managed to escape the fires. They filed into a cold and dark room, the air thick with an musky vapor smelling something like burnt hair and vinegar mixed together, with oddly sweet undertones. Several tables were upended or broken, the hearth filled with cobwebs, and some floorboards had rotted through and broken- if it hadn't been so dark, one might be able to see the cellar through the holes. Glass crunched beneath the traveler's boots as they entered, dragging luggage along. Callista was horrified by the grime and dilapidation, but she was too exhausted to insist they go elsewhere.

Across from the entrance, a dirty, tattered blanket had been nailed over a doorway and quiet moans could be heard from within. A rail-thin Khajiit, apparently the proprietor of the establishment, was slumped behind the bar with her bare paws braced against the edge of the counter, a dim candle by her foot providing the only light in the room. Dull rosettes adorned her tawny fur, which clumped from filth. A very low cut tunic revealed the tops of sagging, cream-colored breasts, pressed up by the thin arms wrapped tightly around her body as if she were cold. Her tail lay limp against the floor, so thin and scraggly that Gort thought it belonged on a rat.

She belatedly turned to look at them as the trio entered, her green eyes flashing when they caught the light, but her eyes did not move to track them as they approached the bar. A slight tremor shook her head.

"Two gold for a mat, ten for a room," she rasped blandly without really looking at anyone. Gort saw that she was missing both her upper fangs when she spoke and her bottom teeth were black. He didn't understand what she meant by a mat, but before he could inquire Jasbir stepped in and clarified that they wanted the room. He counted out ten septims from his purse and held it out for Gort to take.

She reached under the bar and pulled out a key, tossing it on the counter and scooping up the coins Gort had put down. When it was apparent she had nothing more to say, the three awkwardly shuffled toward the curtained doorway with their bags, as there was no other place to go.

Gort soon understood what she had meant. The next room held no furniture, only twin rows of cloth mats laid down on a floor littered with debris. Ropes had been strung across the room and more ratty blankets hung from these ropes to provide crude privacy curtains between the mats, but one could still see inside the little compartments whilst walking past. The room stank of urine and what he understood now to be skooma. There were at least ten occupants, most of them Khajiit, sprawled on their mats or curled up in balls. Some muttered, some whispered, some moaned and shook as if in the throes of pleasure. A few were silent, their faces pressed against floor or mat with drool pooling around their open lips, eyes rolled up in their skulls. Gort saw several strange objects that he knew must be skooma pipes, although it was his first time seeing such a thing. One glance at Callista told him it was her first time as well; her face mirrored the fear and revulsion Gort himself might be experiencing if he weren't too numb to really care. Jasbir frowned deeply despite not being able to see the deplorable condition of the inn and its occupants. He could hear and smell it as well as anyone.

They ascended a dark staircase and found themselves among a row of doors, selecting one which had been left ajar and hoping the key would actually lock it. The room stunk of mildew and faintly of vomit, but Gort figured they were likely all the same. It was a miserable place full of miserable people and yet none of them said anything about it. They were too numb, too exhausted.

Gort had been able to sleep for a few hours, although his dreams had been plagued by nebulous terrors. Dark shapes pursued him through alien places and although he never saw his enemies clearly he sometimes thought they were his brothers, or the Altmer, or even a massive dragon snapping at his heels with the hot stench of decay rolling off its breath. He awoke in a cold sweat and Callista was there, slivers of light from the boarded window falling across her puffy red eyes as she stared out at what little she could see of the city. Since neither could sleep Gort had volunteered to get breakfast, mainly so he could get away from her for a moment. He needed time to conceal his weakness. He'd composed himself by the time he returned with the stale scones.

Now Callista pulled out the thin bricks of pressed fruit and nut that they'd taken from the Altmer's packs the night before and tossed one to Gort, who sat down on his bed against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of himself. They ate in silence, Gort finding himself numb to the taste but somewhat satisfied by the grinding of the nuts under his molars. He couldn't stop running his tongue over his chipped tooth, couldn't stop thinking about how he'd cried in front of those mer like a helpless child... If he'd ever needed proof of his utter worthlessness, that had been it.

"Hey," Callista said softly and Gort's eyes snapped up to meet hers. She'd been staring at him, her thick brows drawn together in concern.

"What?"

"Where are you from?" she asked. Her expression and tone both shifted to a parody of normalcy, as if she were asking out of pure curiously and not as a distraction. "I just realized I don't know anything about you, really.. but you two know so much about me."

"Well," Gort began, playing along. "My birthplace is called Largashbur, an Orsimer village in Skyrim. That place and its people are dead to me now."

"...I see."

"It's okay," Gort shrugged. "I.. left.. when my mother died. She.. was making _agok-arot._ A dagger for ceremony, not real use. It's tradition that every step of the process is performed by one person. She was mining the ore when the shaft collapsed. Several died in the cave in."

"I'm so sorry, Gort."

Neither looked at the other. Callista lay her hands in her lap over the largely uneaten food, most likely regretting her choice of topic. Gort lowered his hands to rest against his thighs as well, his mind a jumble of horrible memories both old and fresh. The cruel laughter of his half-brothers echoed in his mind, some younger than him yet still so much stronger, as they held him down while they mocked him, beat him, destroyed his things- just like the Altmer who had easily overpowered him with a simple spell. The shame, the helplessness, it was all so much worse than the physical pain.

How much longer could he have withstood their beatings before he broke and told his torturers where in the forest he had left the last dragonborn? How long before he gave up her name?

"I am _lorduk_ ," Gort said, still without looking at her. He stared at the wall, at a patch of some sort of mold from exposure to the moist outside air. He didn't know why he was saying this. Telling someone about his mother was... relieving, in some small way, and now the rest was spilling out. She had a right to know what he was; who she had entrusted her life to. Callista's face contorted in obvious confusion, but he continued before she could ask. "I'm a weakling. A fuck up. I'm not strong like other Orcs. I failed the trail of adulthood again and again. I didn't leave, I was kicked out because my father didn't want a sign of weak blood lingering in the village. And last night, I almost got you killed. I couldn't have taken much more." He closed his eyes.

"What is the trial of adulthood?" Callista asked, her voice strangely cold- as if she were furious, but containing it. Gort sighed, reliving the humiliation in his mind. Three times he had tried and given up, had come crawling home with his tail between his legs.

"A boy goes into the woods to hunt a troll. He has only weapons and tools made by his own hand, and he cannot eat until he brings home the troll for the village to cook. Then he is a man. I'm 19 now, and still I am not a man."

"That is absolutely stupid," Callista spat and stood so abruptly that her chair clanked against the windowsill, prompting Gort to finally look at her. She crossed the small space and dropped to her knees in front of Gort, glaring at him with the same fervor she had shown the day before. The Altmer's rations were clenched in her hand.

"What kind of people expect someone to kill a troll by themselves, and while _starving_ to boot? And this makes you a man? An adult? I'm sorry, Gort, but just because it's a tradition of your people doesn't mean that it has any value. Tradition says my life is worth more than yours because of the blood in my veins but its _bullshit_. You saved my life. You endured so much for me, someone you don't even know. You aren't weak." Callista shook her head, her eyes screwed tightly shut. She bit her bottom lip with her oversized teeth and when she finally opened her eyes to search Gort's they were wet with unshed tears.

"I'm so sorry for what happened," she sob-whispered and closed her eyes again. Gort stared mutely, not knowing what to say. It hurt him to see her upset, but at the same time he was shocked by such an emotional display. A fellow Orc would never have forgiven his weakness. Finally he reached out- but stopped, his hand hovering over hers. He set it back in his lap.

"Don't be sorry, Callista," He said with firm, honest conviction. "My life never had meaning until now. I just wish- no, it doesn't matter. I promise I'll do my best to see you through this."

Jasbir shifted on the bed, and both sets of eyes snapped up to see if he was awake. The Moth priest sighed and rubbed at his face.

"I need air," Gort said. He stood and fled from the room, down past the writhing addicts, out the front entrance and into blessed sunlight. He fell back against the wall by the door and let out a long, shaking breath. In the light of day he could clearly see the garbage, the ragged cloth that the beggars slept on throughout the street, but he did not see many people. It seemed impossible to him that they had been followed to this place. Anyone healthy and sane would stand out like a beacon.

A gray, slim-framed Khajiit smoking a tobacco pipe stood opposite Gort, on the other side of the door to the inn. He craned his head up and blew rings into the cloudless sky. A loose vest hung from an otherwise bare torso and multiple gold hoops jangled when he flicked his ear. The fabric of his pants sagged at the crotch and gathered at his ankles.

"The city guard sends men to fight the dragon," the Khajiit said absently without looking at Gort, in the stilted, noun-stressing accent Gort had come to hate.

"What?" Gort initially found himself dumbstruck by the non sequitur, but in retrospect it was obvious other people would have noticed something like a _dragon_ flying around. It must have been the talk of the town.

"No, friend, he did not see it in a sugar-dream! The dragon that flies over Bravil. The Countess seeks to kill it." The Khajiit turned toward Gort, tapped out his ashes on the side of the inn, and nodded to the Orc. "He wonders if this is wise, but wisdom and power seldom are married. Warm sands to you, friend." Gort was still staring stupidly when the Khajiit moved past him and set off down the street.

Gort finally trudged back up to the room after allowing himself a few more minutes to clear his mind, moving slowly to buy himself time before he would have to face Callista, but he wasn't sure why. She hadn't judged him. Her values were different from his own people- Hell, her values were a bit different from everybody. He smiled to himself.

She would make a good queen.

He opened the door to see Jasbir sitting up on the edge of the bed, combing his thin hair. Callista had moved back to the window and seemed to be finished with her breakfast.

"Good morning, Gort," Jasbir said, setting down his comb. "We were all too tired to discuss this last night, but I've been thinking. Those elves- the Altmer. You said they didn't know Callista's name, based on the questions they asked you. I was thinking about who they could possibly be and how they could have found out about us. Any orders Vinnus received would obviously not refer to Callista by name or go into explicit detail. Something like, "Torygg slain, take Travere to Stonecross." _How_ anyone would have gotten _that_ information is a mystery- Perhaps a courier with loose lips, perhaps a note accidentally left in the wrong place. Anyway, this leads me to believe they had previous access to information about the dragonborn prophecy- perhaps gleaned during their occupation of the Imperial City- and were able to make the logical assumption that Torygg might be the one referenced in the prophecy. But they did not have access to any of the notes about my own vision. Otherwise they would have known the identity of the last dragonborn and would have come for Callista long before this started. Do the two of you follow me so far?"

"Uh, yeah," Gort said, still standing near the door. He wasn't really sure how this information helped them. Callista hmed her acknowledgment.

"The fact that they didn't use any sort of mind control magicka during their interrogation means that they weren't intelligence agents or spies of any kind. They also ran right at us without concealing themselves, further evidence they were not trained as spies. Based on what you described of their clothing, I'd say mid-ranking Thalmor bureaucrats. There certainly aren't any Altmer working for the Medes. Probably they just happened to be the closest people available to search my house, but were ill-suited to the job. As for the man who attacked us earlier, probably a thug quickly hired by them. These are only my own suppositions, mind you. We can't be sure."

"And?" Gort asked blankly. "The one that grabbed a book full of papers got away. Now they know everything."

"Yes, but they didn't have time to find _everything_ hidden in my house, like the list of non-Cult intelligence contacts. Probably they took my vision journal. And the fact remains that the Thalmor- Divines know _what_ they'd want with a dragonborn- have limited resources in Cyrodiil. I have access to people who aren't officially connected with the Order, and by the time we reach them the Thalmor won't have had time to organize themselves to send experienced agents after us. In other words, there is hope."

For the first time since the initial attack outside Stonecross, the bunched muscles in Callista's forehead and neck seemed to ease.

"Then I'll be hidden away where no one can hurt me or be hurt for me," she said. Jasbir nodded.

"Until my people figure out the whereabouts of the weapon. We've had agents scouring ancient texts and ruins for years already- at some point they've got to turn up _something_."

"There's something I want to ask," Gort said seriously, straightening his spine and raising his chin. "I've fulfilled my duty to you, Mister Travere, or at least I will have once Callista is safe with your people. But this group that works with the Moth priests- they need manpower, right? Guards for the safe house, hands for the hunt. I'd like to sign on, if you'll vouch for me despite how.. how we met."

Jasbir smiled lightly and nodded. "Of course, Gort. We'd be happy to have you."

Callista said nothing, her gaze toward Gort inscrutable before she stood and began rolling up her bed.

"I've been trying to remember the names of people we can trust- it's been a very long time since I was personally in touch with any of them, although Vinnus did keep me updated on a few- there's a scholar who lives in Skingrad. Very knowledgeable about Tamrielic artifacts. He provided many resources from his private library to help us pinpoint the location of the sword. Nothing came of that, of course, but- Anyway, I think he'd be willing to help us, and Skingrad isn't that far away. If you don't mind, Callista, I'd like to charter a private carriage to take us. I'll pay for our horses to be stabled here and send for your horse at a later time. But we simply can't risk being recognized by our horses. We'd better buy new clothes and armor for you before we leave town as well. I have plenty of gold."

Jasbir's prattling was something of a relief to Gort. At least it filled the silence. And his tone was so very _hopeful_ , something they were all in dire need of. Skingrad was only two or three days away and the Altmer didn't know where they were- what could possibly go wrong now?

Because they wanted to leave that day they didn't have the time to commission fitted suits of armor for Callista and Gort, but they were able to find a pair of slightly rusty chainmail shirts that had once belonged to city guards. The crest-adorned tabards were even still available if they wished, although Jasbir politely declined. (How the Argonian armorer came to have them was a mystery, as he feigned ignorance and reverted to Jel when asked.) These had added plates along the forearm and thick strips of chain that laid along the thighs like tassets. Gort's orcish gauntlets were discarded as they were too identifiable, and instead he received leather gloves like those Callista had brought with her. He kept his steel boots and greaves as they were not so uncommon as to look out of place with the rest of his outfit. The mail uniforms came with matching steel helms somewhat similar to the one Gort had lost, but veiled with more chainmail from the nasal down and enclosing the lower head and neck like a hood. They almost looked like twins aside from Callista's new wooden buckler and a red velvet cape trimmed with wolf fur on the hood and ends. Gort thought that she looked rather knightly arrayed as such, but he was very distraught by the similarities between this armor and that which she'd been wearing in Jasbir's vision.

"We have no choice. This is the only armor we can get on short notice, and the outcome could be the same regardless of what she is wearing," Jasbir said in hushed tones while Callista changed in the armorer's spare room. Gort sullenly accepted this fact and tried to act normal, ignoring Callista's questioning looks when she returned.

They'd had a late start and by the time they had bought the armour, extra potions and food, and eaten lunch it was already early evening, several hours before sunset. Jasbir had to pay the travel company three times the normal fee for their carriage- everyone was spooked about the dragon and half the drivers had already fled the city. Gort felt sick to his stomach as Callista counted out over 600 gold for their armor and then 90 gold for the carriage. He'd never seen so much money in his entire life and couldn't fathom how much more must be stuffed in Jasbir's bag- must be the majority of the weight, in fact. All courtesy of the Cult of the Ancestor Moth saved especially for this purpose.

Now they were piled into a topless, rickety wooden carriage that seemed to bump and jostle them around even more than the horses had done. Gort sat across from Callista and Jasbir on the sun-bleached benches, their bags piled up against the wall between their compartment and the driver's seat and secured with netting. Their driver was an old Imperial with a thin, stubble-peppered face and squinting eyes. After introducing himself as Clagius he didn't speak another word, and the pair of bays seemed to know their way along the road without input from the driver. Gort noticed that the old man's eyes were on the sky more often than the road ahead of him, tilting his broad-brimmed straw hat up as he ostensibly searched for the dragon.

Gort watched the scenery roll by, avoiding Callista's gaze. The entire group seemed to suffer a shared melancholy despite the fact that their troubles looked to be behind them. As if to mirror their mood, the sky had prematurely darkened with storm clouds. Thunder rumbled over the Niben Basin, visible for a few hours yet before the Great Forest between Bravil and Skingrad would obscure it. The air lay heavy and moist with the fresh scent of impending rain. It was only a matter of time before the drizzle would reach them and then the downpour. Gort hoped they would outrun the storm, but it seemed unlikely.

"That axe- you're very skilled with it, aren't you?" Callista finally asked, breaking a long silence. She nodded to the axe laying across Gort's lap. He had taken it out of his belt for quick access, just in case. Bandits were still a very real possibility. He shrugged. He was proficient with several weapons, but that meant little when facing an opponent with more strength of arm.

"All Orcs learn weapon skills from the time they're old enough to hold one. Axes, clubs, blades, bows. It's nothing special."

Callista smiled ruefully, touching the hilt of her father's sword. "I'm sure you can tell by now that we humans don't necessarily value those skills. I learned a little from books but it's just not the same as having real experience. I always wanted to save up for some training so I could join the Fighter's Guild, but well... It just didn't happen. I wish I knew how to use this thing properly. I've almost been killed twice now."

"You're better off letting us protect you anyway," Jasbir said. "If something happens, run and let us deal with it if you can. Your life is too valuable."

Callista's face and shoulders both dropped almost imperceptibly and she turned to watch the landscape. Jasbir couldn't see it, but Gort knew exactly what she was thinking. He'd felt it many times himself- inadequacy.

"Hey," Gort said, smiling when she turned her attention back to him. "I can teach you a thing or two once we get to this safehouse. We'll have plenty of time, right? Sword, axe, I can get you learned in almost anything." His grin broadened when Callista smiled back at him, fire burning in her eyes once again.

"Thank you Gort, I'd like that."

Warmth spread through his belly.

"Is that why you wanted to join the Fighter's Guild? Access to trainers?" he asked, pushing aside the slightly uncomfortable, slightly giddy feeling unleashed by her smile and grateful tone.

"Well, sort of. I wanted to protect the weak because the Legion doesn't do that anymore, but I have to get stronger first. Waiting tables is a pretty pointless existence. I mean, there's nothing wrong with honest work... but if I could have helped at least one person, then my life would have meaning, you know? I guess I can never join the Guild now, but maybe I can help a lot of people now with this prophecy. And if I _do_ get attacked again, I want to be more than dead weight."

"You weren't dead weight," Gort said. "You held the assassin off long enough for me to hit 'em, and from what Jasbir told me you wounded that Altmer pretty good. That's impressive for someone who's only self-taught."

Callista shrugged, but she was still smiling. The sound of voices caught their attention, and both Gort and Callista turned to see a large camp of soldiers further ahead. Tents had been erected at either side of the road. A large group of armored men and women, no doubt the Bravil City Guard according to the crests, tended campfires or sat cleaning their weapons. Many milled about restlessly. The driver slowed the cart as they approached and a guard stepped forward to greet them.

"Hail, citizens," spoke the Redguard, touching her helm and nodding to the group. "We're allowing traffic through, but we must warn you a dragon has been sighted in the area. We're doing our best to track it, but we can't promise your safety on the road."

The driver twisted in his seat to look back at his riders.

"It ain't nothing t'me, I took yer drakes and I'll keep my word if ya want to go on."

"Yes, we'll go on," Jasbir nodded at the driver and said to the guard, "Thank you, ma'am. Good luck with the hunt."

Clagius snapped the reigns and the cart rumbled steadily forward again after an initial lurch. With his hand on the high back of the wagon, Gort turned to watch the camp slowly recede. There were probably no more than fifty guards, but to Gort it seemed a small army. He remembered how effortlessly the dragon had snapped Zabul up in its jaws and wondered if even so large a group stood any chance at all. Would their weapons even penetrate the dragon's thick scales?

The camp disappeared around a bend and the forest grew thicker around them, blotting out much of what little light was left of the gray twilight. The temperature was dropping as well, the sudden cold and gloom draping the travelers like a malevolent shroud. It began to sprinkle. Callista pulled up the hood of her cloak; Gort pulled blankets from the packs for himself and Jasbir to huddle beneath. They were in for a very miserable, sleepless night.

The wagon had just turned around the distant bend when Keerah looked up to see another traveler coming. He was a small blot of color on the horizon yet, but slowly forming into the shape of a tall man slumped over a black horse, a ratty blanket wrapped around his body and obscuring his face. The Redguard stood by the road and waited for the man to approach, delivering the same message to him as she had to the earlier group. She looked into the makeshift hood of dirty cloth and saw that he was an Altmer, his eyes drooping and red from a lack of sleep and his sunken cheeks dragging his lips into a frown. He listened to her distractedly, his eyes trained on the road ahead of him.

"Yes, yes, I'll take my chances," he snapped. Keerah frowned. Like many she had grown distrustful of Altmer after the war and she didn't appreciate his tone, but she had other things to worry about just now.

"Stay safe, _citizen_ ," she said sarcastically and turned away. Nilaryal heeled his horse and continued along without comment. The little blue pinpricks in his vision had nearly faded away, and although he doubted he would lose his targets on the road he could not leave anything to chance.

He'd not been able to sleep the entire night as he watched them from outside the inn. He had taken the time to kill a beggar for his clothes but otherwise he hadn't left his post once. The monotony and the exhaustion were wearing him down. He reached inside his belt pouch to draw out a potion of fortify stamina- it would keep him alert for a few hours more. Nilaryal hoped he would have a chance to send for reinforcements before he ran out. After gulping down the bitter liquid Nilaryal felt himself wake up as if he'd just taken a five hour nap- strength returned to his tired limbs, his eyes opened wide and alert and he sat up straighter on his mount. He cast his mark again just in case something should happen, renewed the detect life spell as it began to flicker out, and settled in for a long ride.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

The endless thud of hooves against road and the pat-pat of raindrops on trees had lulled Gort into something like a trance. He stared down at his own feet, blanket pulled over his head, simply listening to the noise of the storm. Thunder cracked incredibly loud and close, and in the single moment of illumination branches hung over the travelers like black claws ready to pluck them from the wagon. Gort was less bothered by this exposure to the elements than the others were, but he hoped that Clagius would pull off the road to find shelter and rest sometime soon.

Thunder clapped once more, but as the lightning died the rumble continued and grew into a horrible roaring shriek that ripped through the air. Every eye snapped skyward, the word _dragon_ poised on every tongue. The voice bellowed again, so loud that it seemed to fill every square inch of the forest, seemed to reverberate off the trees. As mindlessly animalistic as it was, there was something more.

"SEEEER OF THE SCROLLSSSSSS!"

Gort thought he must be insane. Had a roar so throaty and bestial really spoken those words or was it a trick of the thunder and wind? He did not have to wonder long; lightning lit the forest and the impossibly large, dark mass hung in the sky above them, rainwater shining on its scales. It flung open its wings and thrust forward its hind legs in a maneuver so similar to a bird as it lands. Branches overhanging the road snapped and tumbled down as it dropped. Callista screamed, Clagius shouted. The horses squealed in panic and took off at breakneck speed, the sudden jolt nearly throwing Gort to the floor of the wagon. The ground shook as the behemoth landed feet-first and without missing a beat the dragon dropped forward onto the claws of its half-folded wings, like a bat. It slithered after them quicker than Gort would have thought such a massive beast could ever move, mud churning and flying up with its claws.

Jasbir was shouting at the driver to stop. Callista was screaming for him to go faster. Gort stared at the glowing gold orbs that had locked onto the carriage, at the long twisting horns that flanked the angular, reptilian face. The dragon reached out with one winged arm and caught the rear wheel of the wagon in its claw, stopping it immediately and throwing the occupants forward with the force of their momentum.

Gort's face smashed against their netted luggage, Callista and Jasbir piling up alongside him. He heard cries as the driver was thrown from his seat to the ground between his horses who screamed and stamped the muddy earth as they tried to run. Gort scrambled up, turning to gaze at the dragon, his face slack with awe and fear. His axe was on the floor of the wagon somewhere; little good it would do him now.

"Seer of the scrolls!" the dragon boomed. It's long neck curved in a graceful arc as it brought its head down to their level, tilting to the side to look at them with one golden eye. Jasbir was on the floor of the carriage but he pushed himself up, crawled toward the back of the wagon on hands and knees.

"Yes," Jasbir called weakly, barely audible as if he'd forgotten how to speak. He tried again, louder this time, but still his voice trembled. "Yes, that's me! I am Jasbir Travere the Moth Priest!" He came to the end of the wagon and pulled himself up by the rear wall, face to face with a creature which he could not see and yet knew to be the most terrible thing he would ever meet in his life. The carriage rattled and creaked violently as the squealing horses strained against the tack that secured them to the wagon. Gort glanced over his shoulder to see Clagius scramble into the forest, his clothes drenched with mud.

"Jasbir, no!" Callista stepped after the priest, her hand outstretched to pull him back, but Gort grabbed her by the cape and yanked her back into his embrace. She did not fight against him. Tears welled in both their eyes as they watched, rain streaming down their helms.

"Prophecy foretells that the last of my blood shall meet the blind seer and his companions. I am Raxrikaasal of the race you name Dragon and last of my kind. Do not fear me, for I have come far to speak to you," the dragon said, and this time it did not bellow the words, but its speaking voice was still very loud and with a throaty, growling quality more animal than not. It turned its head this way and that as if to examine them from all angles.

"Yes, I will speak to you! I have so many questions..! What prophecy do you mean? Are you really the last dragon?" Jasbir shouted, leaning forward against the edge of the wagon. Gort feared he might tumble over in his eagerness. He himself was still paralyzed with fear, his arms clenched tightly around a shaking Callista. Thunder crackled around them, an appropriate backdrop for this dramatic encounter.

"Yes, I am the last. Once my people flourished in this land, but man and mer hunted us to wear our scales. We pledged service to your Empire in a bid for peace; you repaid us in death. The men of the frozen North killed us in droves not only for scales, but because of our likeness to some demon they believed would end the world. We fled to the East and concealed ourselves there, slowly recovering our numbers until the serpent-kin learned how to detect our hidden forms from your people. Again we were hunted, slain, driven from our territories again and again until only my clan remained. In time, even they were slaughtered and I was left alone. If another exists somewhere in this world, I cannot find them." The dragon dipped its head, its glowing eyes winking out as it briefly closed them.

"I know little of the prophecies of your people, but I know you are a reader of _kelle_ , a seer, and I know your quest entwines with my own. My people have seen it; our seers foretold the day and place we would meet.

"Long ago in the time of myth, the blood of the Father fell upon the world. The snake-kin you call Tsaesci had one such drop of blood which they fashioned into a sacred weapon, a symbol of their race's power. Prophecy foretold the end of my people, and that they might be saved if this weapon was brought into the hands of a certain mortal whose identity you could provide. My kind had few allies among the Tsaesci, who brought the sword to the Western land where it would be hidden away to await the one who may wield it. You seek this place, _Sedamis Ilkorak_ , Cavern of Ages, and I seek to guide you."

Jasbir turned to the others, nearly hysterical with glee.

"You didn't say anything about this in your vision," Gort croaked.

"No, I didn't!" Jasbir shook his head but he was smiling. "But this dragon saved my life on the road earlier, didn't you, Rax.. what was your name again?" He turned back to the dragon.

"Raxrikaasal," came the emotionless growl. "Yes. I have journeyed far across the sea and arrived by the Bay mere days ago, concealed and awaiting the appointed time. I would speak to you then, but you ran before I had finished my meal." Gort's stomach turned at that.

"I don't quite understand what is happening or how Raxrikaasal relates to the prophecy, but I know that it could quite easily have killed us all by now if it wished. I think this is reason enough to trust it," Jasbir said.

Gort relaxed his arms around Callista, suddenly realizing that he'd been holding her and she'd been clutching his arm. They disengaged and Callista slowly moved toward the dragon, removing her helm to reveal her upturned face, eyes wide and lips parted in wonder.

"Yes... I suppose that's true," Callista nearly whispered, tucking her helm under one arm. She paused to gather her wits before speaking in a louder voice. "My name is Callista Roderick. It's... It's a pleasure to meet you, Raxrikaasal." The dragon's face held no emotion, as cold and calculating as a viper, but it ever so slightly dipped its head down in something like a bow.

"And I'm Gort," the Orc said, his voice still a croak. The dragon didn't seem to care. At the very least, it didn't ask him to speak up.

"I am the one from the prophecy," Callista said. "The one to wield the sword. But tell me, how will this save your race? Our prophecy says that the World-Eater will awaken. There is nothing about saving the dragons."

"I do not know," Raxrikaasal admitted. It was hard to tell, but Gort thought he could detect sadness in the dragon's tone. "I am no seer. All others who may know the answer are slain... I carry within me the last offspring of a dying race. If my clutch brings male and female, my sons must be mates to myself and my daughters. This detestable act, from which so often springs children weak of body and mind, may just as well condemn our race as save it. I hope that which lies within the cavern may save us from extinction if my clutch cannot. I have no choice but to trust that our prophecy is true."

 _It's a female dragon!_ Gort's jaw fell slack and he saw the dragon in a new light- she was a mother! She was not the bloodthirsty monster he had assumed, but instead a hunted outcast seeking only to secure a future for her children. He still found her terrifying, but also breathtakingly beautiful and wondrous in a way he would never be able to describe.

The horses seemed to have tired themselves out and given up their mad attempts to flee, but Raxrikaasal did not release her hold on the wagon wheel. At least the rocking and the creaking had stopped, and now the rain slowed to a trickle before stopping completely.

" _Sedamis Ilkorak_ is far to the East and a long flight; we should arrive at daybreak. I am weak from hunger and exertion. Please, let us hurry to this place. I have only the strength to carry two of you, so decide amongst yourselves who is most necessary."

Callista and Gort exchanged looks as if they had been struck and then looked to Jasbir, who frowned deeply.

"We can't split up now!" Callista blurted.

"It's okay," Gort said calmly. He raised up his helm and tucked it under his arm as Callista had done and came forward, offering the dragonborn his sincerest smile. He laid a hand on her arm. "I was never a part of this to begin with. You've got a destiny to fulfill, Callista. I know you can do it- save the world and become the best queen that ever lived! Even if we never meet again, I'll always believe in you."

Hope, pride, and something bittersweet and almost painful swelled in Gort's chest. He knew that he would miss this person he barely knew for the rest of his life, but her destiny was so much larger than his. Their paths had crossed once, and for that he was thankful, but now it was time to part. He understood this. He accepted this.

"Gort..." Callista's brow wrinkled as if pained and she laid her gloved hand over the one on her arm.

"No, I will stay behind," Jasbir quietly interrupted. The both turned to look at him. "There's nothing more I can do for you. I'm not strong enough for a long journey of this sort, and if there's danger a blind man won't do any good." He shook his head and then smiled. "Gort can protect you better than I can. I'll wait for you in Skingrad, Callista- find me when this is over if you have need of me, or go to the Temple in the Jerall mountains. My order will help you in any way they can."

"Jasbir, we can't leave you in these woods alone..." Callista protested.

"You must," he said sternly. "I have a feeling these horses know the way well enough. They won't run off the road. Please, don't argue with me. This is how it has to be. Gort, will you fetch my shoulder bag?"

Gort mutely did as asked even though he was stunned by the idea of leaving Jasbir behind, blind and alone on the road. "Here," he said, touching the strap of the bag to Jasbir's hand, but the priest shook his head.

"That is for you to keep. There are health and stamina potions inside, and a bit of food and water. You must hurry, my friends. We don't know how soon Alduin will return. Every second is too valuable to waste." He was smiling kindly at them, his tone gentle and soothing like a grandfather putting children to bed. Callista's mouth quivered and she threw her arms around the priest in a tight hug.

"Thank you for everything, Jasbir. I'll find you after this is over," she whispered, trying to conceal the fact that she was on the verge of tears. Jasbir raised an arm to pat her back.

"It was an honor to be of service to you," he said as she pulled away. He turned towards Gort and extended a hand. "And an honor to meet you, Mr. Gort." Gort stared stupidly at the outstretched hand for a moment, shifted the bag into his left hand, and clasped Jasbir's palm.

"The honor is mine, Mister Travere." There was so much more he wanted to say... _Thank you for giving me a chance. Thank you for trusting me._ The words wouldn't come out, but somehow, Gort knew he'd be seeing the old man again.

"It is settled?" the dragon asked. She had watched them with her emotionless slitted eyes, barely moving, almost like a daedra carved from black volcanic rock.

"Yes," Callista said, turning back to face the dragon and slipping her helm and hood back over her head. Gort took a moment to don his helm, secure his axe in his belt and the bag over his shoulder. The dragon finally released her hold on the cart, but the horses didn't appear to know it, as they didn't move. She lumbered back to give herself space, stretching out her wings and lowering her breast to the ground, her long neck extending out gracefully before her. Gort could see a line of massive bony spikes rising along her spine. Jasbir stood by as the others climbed down from the carriage, his face stony with resolution.

"Lay flat on my shoulders, one to a side and grasp what handholds you may," Raxrikaasal said. Gort moved mechanically, totally dumbstruck by what he was actually doing. He'd been completely resolved to stay behind, and now he was going to _ride_ a dragon with Callista. He was afraid of hurting Raxrikaasal when his steel boots first touched her scales, but they were so hard and thick Gort soon realized she might not even be able to feel him. She tilted her body to the side first for Gort to climb on, and then for Callista. It was easier than he thought to hang onto her; he grasped a spinal spike with his right hand, and one of the bony protrusions growing from her shoulder with his left. His boots found footholds on her rugged, plate-like scales. He looked to his right to exchange an uneasy glance with Callista, partially concealed by the curve of the dragon's back.

"You must hold on tight. Are you ready?"

"Yes," two shaking voices responded at the same time. The floor of Gort's belly dropped away as the dragon raised up to its full height and he was suddenly hanging onto her at a 30° angle. Gort had wanted to call goodbye to Jasbir but his voice caught in his throat as the dragon ran forward, mighty wings pumping and blowing hurricane-strong winds across her passengers, and suddenly they were lifted into the air. They rose higher and higher with every pump. Gort could not see the carriage from his vantage point but he heard the wheels rattle as the newly spooked horses shot off down the road, hopefully to deliver Jasbir safely to Skingrad.

The dragon wheeled in the sky and leveled off so that Callista and Gort were no longer hanging, but laying flat along her back. She pumped her wings again and again and they rose higher until they reached the clouds themselves. The gray landscape disappeared as wisps of cloud overtook them like a fog, but they climbed higher still and finally exploded into light, into the golden sunset the storm clouds had hidden. Clouds seemed to stretch for miles in every direction, rolling like tumultuous waves, the crests lit with the amber light of Magnus. Gort laughed with unconscious glee, his voice snatched away by the wind as soon as it left him.

Every time the dragon worked her wing Gort could feel her shoulder move beneath him and every time his hands tightened their grip around his handholds, terrified that he would slip and fall. But most of the time the dragon simply glided, wings outstretched and her body almost perfectly level. At those times Gort thought he probably could have let go and would be perfectly safe, but every muscle in his body clenched uncomfortably at the very thought of doing _that_.

They flew rapidly East and the sun soon receded behind them. Suddenly the clouds below dropped away and they were flying over bare countryside, but it was so dark now that he could hardly make anything out. Gort could not see the ground directly below him, but he could see land stretching out to the black horizon over Raxrikaasal's shoulder. The wind ripped at Callista's cape and rushed over the dragon's body. Gort's padding below the chainmail was damp from the earlier rain and his hands were sweating inside his gloves. His back was freezing, but the rest of his body was well insulated where he pressed against the dragon. Once the novelty of flying began to wear off, Gort realized he was in for a very uncomfortable ride.

An indigo haze surrounded Raxrikaasal, so subtle that at first Gort wasn't sure he was really seeing anything at all. It was much like the haze of flame one would see on a single coal kicked out of the fire. The bright stars on the horizon began to rotate visibly and the few clouds crawling along below them blew across Nirn as if snatched by a sudden gust of wind. The entire night passed away in what felt like merely an hour as he clung to Raxrikaasal, stealing an occasional glance at Callista to make sure she was okay. His muscles ached with the exertion of holding on. Slowly he began to relax, trusting that she wouldn't suddenly dip and fling him off. He could feel her muscles tense before she flapped her wings, giving him plenty of time to hold on tight.

A golden light finally spilled over the land and Gort could now see a long chain of mountains breaking up the horizon, silhouetted by the morning sun. Magnus moved with uncharacteristic speed, long fingers of shadow cast by the mountains stretching across the land as the orb climbed the sky. He could see detail now that he couldn't the night before; indistinct blots of green forest, brown and gold patchworks of farmland, and rivers of glittering light snaking across the landscape. It was indescribably beautiful.

"Do not be alarmed," the dragon said, breaking a long silence, and suddenly her body began to shimmer, turn translucent, and fade completely away. Gort's stomach back-flipped and his hands clenched tighter on the spikes as he suddenly saw _nothing_ below him, only Tamriel racing by at incredible speed. He could still feel her below him and knew that she was merely invisible, but Gort's mind screamed at him that he was flying through the air with nothing to catch his fall. He met Callista's gaze and knew they were both bloodlessly pale beneath their hoods. He turned his attention back to the ground and saw the parapets of a city wall rushing toward them and understood why Raxrikaasal had hidden herself. He wasn't sure what city they were passing over, but it was a very large one, indigo-shingled roofs clustered within the walls and a massive stone cathedral reaching up as if to stab them with its spires. He could even make out a castle, half-hidden in a cluster of trees.

They climbed higher again as Raxrikaasal flew into the mountains, wisps of white cloud passing them by, but only high enough for her to clear the jutting rock formations. She no longer traveled in a straight line, but sometimes banked slightly around a peak. Slowly her body faded back into view, and Gort found that he was disappointed he could no longer clearly see the world below.

He was sure now that they were in the Valus Mountains, which separated Cyrodiil from Morrowind. But the mountain chain was a very long one and couldn't say for sure where exactly they were. The mountains seemed to grow taller and taller. The trees that carpeted their broad bases thinned, as did the grass, to be replaced with snow.

Suddenly Raxrikaasal's body tilted; she wheeled in the sky, circling a bluff to shed her speed. Gort heard Callista yelp, as she was the one now "dangling." They weren't really, with their toes firmly planted on the scales, but it was still a disconcerting feeling to tilt sideways in the air. The dragon circled for what seemed like several minutes before she finally growled out a warning for them to hold on. She leaned back and held out her wings to kill her momentum and flapped to control the speed of their descent. Shockwaves ran through her body when her feet hit the ground and Gort could hear her claws scraping harshly against stone. She dropped forward to catch herself with her wing-claws and lowered herself as flat to the ground as she was able.

Gort slid from the dragon as Callista did and immediately fell to his knees. Not only had the muscles of his legs seemingly turned to jelly over the course of the flight, but the ground was a broken field of jagged rock that made it very hard to get a proper foothold. He quickly found his feet and moved away from the dragon to look around.

They were not at the peak of the mountain- that stretched on even further in a somewhat gentle slope. The land they occupied was relatively flat compared to everywhere else and carpeted in a thin, irregular sheet of snow. The bluff dropped away sharply on every side save for the upward slope to the peak, and Gort realized it would be quite impossible for a mortal to climb without the aide of magicka. Looking in any direction afforded a view of countless hills and mountains exactly like this one- but there was something else.

A dark cone rose on the Eastern horizon, a thing so incredibly massive that it seemed tall even from his elevated vantage point. Wisps of cloud somewhere in the many miles between here and there half occluded it. A column of smoke rose from the cone, so solid and heavy that it almost looked like an extension of the rock, and an ashy haze filled the sky for miles around it.

"Red mountain," Callista gasped, coming to stand beside Gort. She lifted her helm to better take in the view. Gort did the same. Raxrikaasal and risen up to stand comfortably on her wings, her head swiveling to look where they did. White specks glittered miles below them, gliding over the valley- birds, Gort realized. He could also make out larger, yellow-white shapes moving single-file along narrow trails cut naturally into the mountainside by the flow of melted snow. Mountain goats. Some vegetation still grew even here, mottling the landscape with green brush, ruddy brown rock, and patches of white snow. And beyond it all that monstrous, smoking volcano dominated the view.

Raxrikaasal's head turned and nodded to something behind them. They both turned to look and saw only the slope leading up, but upon closer inspection Gort finally noticed the narrow crevice leading into the mountainside, half obscured by a dead tree.

"This is it?" Callista asked.

"Yes. _Sedamis Ilkorak_ , Cavern of Ages. I do not know what tests may lay inside, if any, but I wish you fortune and safe passage. I shall wait your return."

Gort looked from the crevice to the dragon, her reptilian face inscrutable, but he could sense fatigue in her voice. He wondered if the pregnant dragon was exerting herself too much.. She held the fate of both her own children and her entire race on her shoulders. The burden must be exhausting.

"I'm ready if you are," Callista said firmly, to mask any doubts. She slipped her helm and hood back over her head and unclasped her robe, draping it over a pointed rock. The buckler was still strapped to her arm.

"Yeah." Gort nodded and donned his helm as well. He shrugged off Jasbir's bag and held it by the strap in his left hand so that he could quickly drop it if he had to fight. "Let me go first."

He slipped his axe from his belt, inhaled deeply to steady his nerves, and stepped toward the mouth of the cavern that angled down into the mountain, leading to gods only knew where.

 _Time to fulfill a prophecy._


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Gort wished that Jasbir were here to light the passage with his magicka. After squeezing his body through the narrow entrance, his chainmail scraping against the wall on both sides, the path lead down at a steep incline. The path twisted sharply so that the light of outside was quickly obscured and Gort had to shuffle forward slowly with his arms in front of him to feel along the damp walls. They seemed to descend forever and Gort's unease grew the deeper they walked. He strained to listen for some clue as to what might await them below, but the breeze blowing against the entrance above them and his own heartbeat in his ears were the only sounds he could make out.

Finally, a faint red glow tinted the walls. The light grew as they walked and the passage finally opened up into a tunnel large enough that two people could walk comfortably side by side. Not long after that they passed beneath a thick, square stone frame that opened into a massive chamber the shape of a cylinder cut in half lengthwise, the ceiling above them a barrel vault to support the weight of the mountain. Stepping from the entryway into the chamber, Gort and Callista both gasped at what they saw.

The room was hand carved originally but the floor and walls had been warped by water drippage from cracks in the ceiling and a buildup of mineral deposits that created stalagmites and stalactites. Two stone braziers flanked the entrance, but instead of a dish for holding fuel, the top of the stands were narrow receptacles holding strange red crystals that burned with magickal flame, bathing the chamber in shades of blood. As Gort passed near he noted that they provided no heat. He wished they would, as the air was uncomfortably damp and cool.

Across from the entrance, perhaps sixty feet away, an elaborate mural had been carved into the half-circle that comprised the opposite wall. It was like nothing Gort had ever seen in either Skyrim or Cyrodiil; figures twice the size of a man stood as if guarding a tall rectangle of stone framed by jamb and lintel in the very center. Another burning crystal hung from a chain several feet in front of it. The figures were snake-men, their torsos and faces vaguely humanoid but for long, tapering snouts and the fangs resting on the outside of their closed mouths, thin and backward-curved like sickles. Their necks flared out in fleshy hoods ridged with bony spikes and they sat coiled atop thick serpentine lower bodies. Each sentry held wakizashis in opposite hands so that they mirrored one another, their off-hands closed into fists. Angular plate armor vaguely recognizable as the Akaviri armor worn by the Blades adorned their upper bodies, as detailed as the rest of the mural so that every rivet, plate, and raised decoration was clearly visible.

But the mural was more than that. Towering over the snake men stood dragons with wings outstretched and either fire or magicka pouring from their open mouths, and beyond them were armies of men holding shields and spears. Decorative stone filigree and strange abstract symbols filled the otherwise empty space between the figures. Some resembled the moons or the sun, others might have been Akaviri emblems for the gods. The two dragons above the serpentine sentries both raised one wing high so that their claws met at the apex of the mural, sharing the burden of holding some symbolic object aloft. It was a wheel divided into eighths, spikes adorning the outer rim of the wheel for each spoke. The hub of the wheel was a circle with a letter inside, but it was too alien and too worn for either one of them to make any sense of.

The entire mural was rather eroded by water damage and crawling with lichen, and in the dim monotone light it resembled wax figures left in the sun until they began to droop. Gort and Callista stepped forward cautiously, reverently, staring up at the thing in awe.

"It's beautiful," Callista said breathlessly. "I wish we had a light to see it better."

Gort was about to agree when a harsh grinding suddenly began, the walls trembling with the noise and sending a thin rain of stone dust upon their hooded heads. The snakelike sentries grated against their stony confines as they pulled away from the wall. Gort's eyes bulged in his skull at the sight. He instinctively grabbed Callista's arm and both scrambled back from the golems. It took Gort several excruciating seconds to get his throat and mouth to work correctly.

"Get-get back! Into the tunnel!"

Callista turned to run, saw a slab of stone lowering itself down in the entry. She dashed madly for the exit but it was too late. She fell against the slab just as it thudded to the ground, beating her gloved fist against the thick stone as if that would topple it. It was completely solid and immovable.

"Gort! The door!"

Gort tossed Jasbir's bag to the side and quickly glanced behind to see what Callista meant.

"Shit." He scowled at the sentries which still slowly extracted themselves from their impressions in the wall, his axe clenched tightly in both hands. Despite their slowness the creatures moved very fluidly as if they weren't really stone at all. Now fully freed from the wall, the right-handed serpent slithered for Gort at half-mortal speed, throwing its long body around the rock formations on the floor with a zig-zagging motion. The other went straight for Callista, both brandishing their dull wakizashis as extensions of their own clenched fists, more like clubs than swords in practicality.

The sentry raised its sword, towering over Gort like a giant as it bore down upon him. Gort threw up his axe to block the strike but a mighty stone fist smashed into his stomach instead, hurling the Orc back into a stalagmite with such force that the cone snapped at the top and drove all air from his lungs. He sat gasping, trying to force his lungs to reinflate as the sentry came at him again, his stomach and back both throbbing with an unbearable pain that made the world swim. He threw himself aside in a roll just as the sword came down again, obliterating the rest of the stalagmite. Chunks of rock flew in every direction and Gort rolled up on his knees, forced himself to stand despite the pain. The sentries moved slower than they did but that didn't afford him much time.

Callista drew her father's sword as the left-handed sentry came at her. She had slightly more time to prepare as she was further away than Gort had been, and she realized at once that the golem's strength would greatly overpower her own. She waited until it raised its weapon to strike and dashed aside, letting the sentry slam its blade against the ground so hard that the floor shook. She sprinted past the length of its body in the hopes that the thing would have to make wide turns. A real snake could bend back on itself to quickly turn, but the unyielding stone might not be able to do the same. She was right, but foiled in any case as the stone serpent swept its tail at Callista, knocking her off her feet. She cried out as the heavy stone struck her shins and sent her tumbling to the ground on her side. The sentry turned, encircling her body with its own as it slithered around her. Callista scrabbled up to find herself enclosed by a rounded wall of stone as tall as her hip. She looked up in horror at the expressionless face of the reptilian that towered over her, its weapon hand raised to strike again.

Callista dropped her sword and threw herself over the wall of tail, her back rolling over the rounded stone and landing on her hands and knees just as the sword came down again, this time biting into the sentry's own tail, the end of the wakizashi overhanging the tail mere inches away from her skull and sending stone dust into the air. She rolled again, shot to her feet and ran for the mural. The chamber which had seemed so large only moments ago now seemed tiny when populated with these behemoths and no exits from which to run from them.

She was panting in fear and exertion when she reached the mural, glanced behind her to see the sentry slithering after her, and frantically turned to the stone door in the center of the wall. There had to be a way out! She patted the slab, patted the ornate doorway that framed it, hoping to find a lever, a switch, _anything..._ Her time had run out and Callista darted aside as the fist of the golem pounded the slab, leaving a spiderweb network of cracks in the stone as it turned to chase her.

The right-handed golem came at Gort with another high strike but this time he didn't try to block it. He darted aside as Callista had done, a sharp pain stabbing his gut with every step, roaring in pain and fury and swinging his axe hard at the golem's side. The axe rebounded ineffectively off its other arm, leaving behind only a thin line where the axe had scraped lichen and mineral buildup from the underlying stone. He saw Callista running from the corner of his eye, saw that she was safe for now and realized running was all they could do. Neither were strong enough to cut through stone, and even losing a limb wouldn't kill a creature without blood or muscle.

Gort ran before the golem could retaliate, putting distance between them so he could think of his next tactic. But what could he possibly do!? As Gort ran for the mural Callista ran away from it, leading her golem back toward the entrance. She ran straight into the stone doorway and caught herself with her palms, running her hands over the slab in a frenzy to find some way to get it open. She grabbed the brazier by the door, furiously patting the thing from top to bottom. Candlesticks and sconces were always secret levers in the stories, but where was the switch!? Just before she was about to try the other the serpent was upon her and Callista leapt out of the way as the cudgel-sword crushed down on the brazier and the flaming crystal it held, the sword scraping horribly against the wall. The crystal shattered, sending flaming shards flying. Callista yelped as one caught her arm but the sharp piece neither penetrated her armor nor burned her, and the flames flickered out when the pieces hit the ground. The crystal shards glowed red, paled, and died a dull pinkish-gray.

Callista saw the sentry with its fists raised over Gort ready to pummel the Orc but it paused, its hands in the air. He struck uselessly at its side before whirling away. Callista looked back to see her own golem had paused as well, but then it was moving again, turning to pursue her with the same relentlessness it had shown thus far.

"Gort!" Callista screamed as she ran. "The crystals! Destroy the crystals!"

"We'll be blind!" the Orc shouted back.

"Just do it! I think it's powering them somehow!"

Gort's underarmor padding was drenched with sweat, his hands damp beneath his gloves. His mouth was so dry, as if every drop of water in his body was intent on finding its way out to soak his clothes. Every movement hurt. His heart thundered in his ears, in his temples, behind his eyes. It felt like phlegm was filling his throat; he coughed, spitting blood into the inside of his chain hood. He knew that an organ had been ruptured by that fist. He had to drink a healing potion soon, but that would entail scooping up the bag, fumbling with the flap, fishing out the right potion, lifting up his hood, all while trying to run ahead of the sentry. Instead he sprinted for the remaining crystal even as Callista led her sentry away from it, every step sending shockwaves of pain through his body. He raised his axe for a sideways sweep and smashed the top of the crystal with every ounce of strength he could muster. It shattered as he turned with the momentum of his blow, shards flying at the wall, each individual fragment flickering as the crimson flames died and the crystal dulled in color and glow. He had whirled around and looked up to see that indeed, the golems had stopped.

But it was only for a moment. They jerked stiffly once, twice, then resumed the chase. Gort glanced up above the serpent man's head, at the final crystal which hung from a chain several feet in front of the mural. It was about fifteen feet off the floor, impossible to reach.

"This is it," Gort gasped, swaying on his feet. The serpent blurred and doubled as it came for him.

Callista saw what was happening but they were on opposite ends of the chamber. She could never reach him in time, but the last crystal was hanging not far away from her current position. She ran beneath it and turned to face her sentry.

"You want me, come get me!" she shouted, throwing out her arms with her palms open and empty save the buckler still on her arm. The stone behemoth came at her with its usual fervor, both arms raised to bash the defenseless Imperial. She waited until the last possible second, heart clenched by terror, her mind screaming at her legs to move but another part of her screaming that she must stay. Just as the arms came down she dodged aside, her hand shooting out to grab the sentry's torso as she swung around and jumped onto its tail. Finding handholds and footholds in the intricate plate armor Callista heaved herself up the body, a vertical mountain of stone that swung around to dislodge her.

Gort weakly raised his axe to block the attack he knew would come but didn't move fast enough. The stone wakizashi cracked against his side and sent him sailing across the room. His axe flew from his hand and he landed like a sack, helmed head clanging and bouncing off the ground. The sentry slithered after him to finish him off as he lay broken, moaning, the entire world spinning and warping. He couldn't make sense of up or down, couldn't comprehend anything other than pain.

Callista's fingers dug into her stone handholds so hard that they hurt, her inexperienced muscles burning as she pulled herself up the golem's back. It struck behind itself with the sword in its left hand and Callista ducked behind her arm to catch the blow with her buckler. The boss caved when struck and the wood splintered, the force nearly breaking her arm and knocking Callista down. The golem spun, its stone tail grinding against the floor, its curled fist pounding at Callista's shoulder but unable to quite reach. Suddenly it leaned forward and Callista knew it would raise abruptly to try to throw her off- her only chance. She scrambled forward, holding the serpentine hood on either side of its head with all her might to keep from falling when it snapped back up. As it raised she hauled herself up with hands braced against the top of the hood, planting her feet on its shoulders before launching into the air, her hands outstretched to grasp the chain hanging above her.

Her fingers closed around the chain just inches above the crystal and the brass cage that held its base, the cold crystal and its magickal fire banging against her hooded face. Her eyes closed against the blinding light and she dangled for a split second, her tired arms aching, her fingers slipping. The giant cudgel-like blade bashed across her shoulder and helm but also the chain above her, the old brass links snapping where struck. She screamed in pain as she swung like a pendulum, the last link barely holding on, stretching, warping, weakening under the extra weight. It snapped.

Callista plummeted to the ground, heard and felt a snap in her leg as shin shattered on impact, but the crystal too shattered like glass, freezing the golem before it could smash her again, freezing Gort's golem with its sword inches away from his broken body.

Callista howled in pain on the ground, plunged into pain and darkness, only vaguely aware of the grumble of stone slabs pulling up and a soft yellow light slipping into the room as the doors opened. It was very faint, still so dark inside that she could only make out rough shapes, but it would have to do.

"Gort? Gort!" she sobbed. Her head rang with pain, her leg absolutely throbbed. She felt something wet and warm on her leg, trapped by her leather pants. She raised herself up on her palms, tried to stand, but the shooting pain sent her tumbling down again. She belly-crawled across the sixty foot room to the spot Gort had tossed Jasbir's bag, barely able to make it out in the dark with so many stalagmites and rocky formations on the floor and her tears obscuring her vision. She peeled off her helm and tossed it aside for better visibility.

Finally her gloved fingers closed around the leather bag. Her entire body shook as she rolled onto her side and pulled out a potion. It was too dark to see color clearly, she would have to hope it was the right one. It was a torturous wait as she fumbled to thumb off the cork whilst wearing gloves, but finally she was gulping the bitter liquid and the pain abated as her leg healed.

"Gort," she cried, finally able to stand. She staggered to the prone Orc with the bag in her hand, already digging out another potion. He didn't respond. She dropped to her knees beside him, the golem still towering above his body, rolled him aside and pulled up his hood to bare his mouth. This time she grabbed the cork with her own teeth, yanked and spit it out, and held the vial to Gort's lips. He moaned weakly as she tilted it back.

"Gort, drink this," she whispered. Some liquid spilled past his lips but then he realized what it was, swallowed thickly, felt the pain in his stomach recede. When the vial was emptied Callista replaced it with another and this time Gort was able to drink normally. He felt clicks within his own body as broken ribs pulled themselves together again, felt the blessed pleasure that was absence of pain. He sat up and looked around in the darkness, at the dark silhouette of Callista and the frozen golems, and at the now open doorway at the center of the mural and the low glow of amber light within that dimly lit the chamber.

"You did it," Gort rasped. In response, Callista threw her arms around the Orc and buried her face against his chainmail shoulder.

"I almost thought you died," she sobbed, squeezing him tight. Gort could feel that she was trembling. He was taken aback by the emotional display, unable to process it for several seconds. The last few minutes were all a blur to him- one minute he'd been dying, now here he was in Callista's arms. Finally he put his arms around her as well. He could feel her warmth even through their armor in the otherwise cold of the cave.

He could have sat like that forever, but Callista finally pulled away and wiped at her wet eyes with her gloves. They sat in silence for several long moments, both knowing they had to continue on, neither wanting to go- neither wanting to risk the life of the other in the chamber that lay beyond the portal. The fate of the world seemed so insubstantial when held against the death of a friend.

"Let's gather our things, rest and eat before we go on," Gort eventually said, his voice almost a whisper. Callista nodded. They had both dropped their weapons, and Callista her helm. After bumbling about in the darkness for a minute or two they trudged back to the original entrance and sat down in the outer tunnel with their backs against opposite walls. Gort guessed that the doors would not close again now that the sentries were defeated, but neither one of them wanted to wait in that room. With their helms sitting beside them, Callista doled out water and food from the bag.

The stale, lukewarm water from Jasbir's waterskin was the best thing Gort had ever tasted in his life. Even better were the travel rations Jasbir had bought in Bravil the day before, which now seemed a lifetime ago- oatcakes, ham jerky, and dried apricots. Gort wouldn't have expected to have an appetite after a near death experience but he practically inhaled the food, as did Callista. He didn't have to worry about his nonexistent table manners eating in the near-dark.

When they were done they sat quietly for several minutes, both staring at the distant doorway.

"I have something I have to tell you," Gort finally said.

"What's that?" Callista asked quietly. He looked at her, but aside from the outline of one side of her face, he couldn't make out the details of her expression. There was another very long pause and Gort's hands clenched in his lap.

"Jasbir didn't tell you the whole truth," he finally said, slowly, not sure really how to say this, or even if he should. But if death awaited Callista in this next room, she had a right to know. "He didn't just see you in his vision. He saw a very specific thing. He made me promise not to tell you."

He stopped again, looking down, unable to meet her gaze even if he couldn't clearly make out her eyes. Callista had been absently rolling a pebble between her fingers but she stopped. She didn't say anything, waiting for him to finish. He inhaled and soldiered on.

"In his vision you died. A big shard of ice went through your chest. You were wearing chainmail armor and appeared to be inside a cave, but the details of the room weren't clear... Maybe that isn't supposed to happen until years from now, but I can't let you walk in that room without telling you."

Gort glanced back up, searching for any reaction. Callista inhaled sharply and then sat very still.

"I... I don't know what to think of that," she finally said. Gort could tell she was trying to be strong, fortifying her voice despite the fear. "I'm not really surprised.. I felt that Jasbir was holding back. But I've come this far. I have to go on."

He nodded. Of course she did. She wasn't the kind of person who would let the world be destroyed just to prolong her own life. But Gort wished she was. He wished they could both just run away right now, forget all of this had ever happened... When it came down to it, Callista was a better Orc than he was.

Callista was the first to stand, offering a hand to Gort to help him up. He let her pull him to his feet and they stood side by side, looking out into the dark chamber and the door beyond. A rectangle of yellow light spilled out across the floor, broken up by the jagged mounds of half-toppled stalagmites. The serpentine golems still stood like statues in the room.

"Thank you for being here with me," Callista whispered without looking away from the door, from her destiny. Gort felt something brush against his fingers. He looked down to see Callista's hand reach for his, her fingers curling around his palm. When he looked up again she had turned her head to face him, again her expression obscured by darkness. His fingers closed around hers and she briefly squeezed.

"Come on," she said, and he could hear the weak but reassuring smile in her voice. "It's time to go."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

 _Author's Note: This is the final chapter, there will be no more updates after this. To those of you who left reviews, especially lonelyguyfarhan: Your words really did encourage me and I appreciate your kindness. Thank you!_

 _Writing this has taught me a lot and there are so many things I would do differently if I were starting over from the beginning, but.. it is what it is, and I'm glad at least a handful of people could enjoy it._

 _Without further ado, the end of my story._

* * *

Nilaryal couldn't believe his eyes when he saw the truly massive blue aura moving through the sky to land near the party he pursued, and he could believe it even less when two of the auras merged with the dragon and took off into the sky. He frantically dug through his saddlebag, throwing potions and food and documents out onto the ground until he found the scrolls he wanted. Jamming three of them under his arm and quickly unfurling the third he whispered the words scrawled across the page.

Blue light glowed in the letters and expanded outward, dissolving the parchment in his hand as it spread, the remaining particles snatched away by the wind before they were gone completely. The hand he held in front of him faded from view and Nilaryal launched effortlessly into the air from the back of his horse, flying unseen after the dragon. He tore off the beggar's tattered blanket and let it drift to the earth. It would slowly fade back into view after parting from his body but Nilaryal didn't give a damn if anyone saw it. He could feel magicka streaming from his feet, propelling him forward at incredible speed until he was mere yards away from the tail of the dragon. The dragon, of all things! He pulled back, letting the beast outpace him, not wanting to be detected. The cold air ripped at his hair, at his filthy rags that passed for clothing, tried to tear the remaining Scrolls of Windform from under his arm. He grit his teeth in grim determination, intent to weather the cold on his face and hands for however long it took. Each scroll would afford him only a few hours of flight. He prayed for the good of his race that it was enough.

Fifteen excruciating hours later Nilaryal was dizzy with fatigue and quite sure his face was forever frozen in its current expression. From time to time he healed himself of his frostbite, but he tried to conserve his magicka. The little potion pouch on his belt wouldn't last him forever, and all of his food had been left behind with his horse. His mouth was dry, but he swore he'd save the last of his water until this hellish nightmare had ended. He dipped in the sky, almost falling asleep, but the belly-flipping sensation of the sudden loss of altitude snapped him awake and he rose again. They had passed over Cheydinhal recently at which point the dragon disappeared, but Nilaryal didn't even need to use life detect as he could still clearly see the mortal cargo flying through the sky.

They were passing over the mountains when Nilaryal felt the stream of magicka weaken, felt himself slowly sinking in the sky.

It was happening. His last scroll had run out. He had to land now, or risk plummeting to his death, or be seen by the dragon. He almost cried in sheer frustration, at the utter unfairness of it. So many hours he had spent chasing this beast, for nothing!

Nilaryal flew low, letting the hills hide him from the dragon, and just before he dropped onto a rocky outcropping he heard flapping and then a scuff of claws against rock. The dragon had landed! Nilaryal's spell ended. His feet were already on the ground but suddenly his weight seemed to settle on them fully and he could see his own body in the periphery of his vision once again. Nilaryal quickly cast life detect and saw the aura of the dragon through the mountain. Not far away, perhaps on the next bluff. He might be able to spare the magicka to fly over there with his own spell, if he waited for just the right moment.

Nilaryal braced his hands against the sheer rock wall- he was standing on a little cliff just big enough for his person. He was so tired. So angry that he'd had to endure this. But he would wait a while more.

He didn't have to wait all that long. The smaller auras disembarked- the Orc and the Imperial girl, he assumed, and made their way down, possibly inside a cave. The dragon rested for a moment more before lifting off again, and Nilaryal saw by watching its aura move that it was hunting some kind of animal in a valley below. This was his chance, he would not get another. Nilaryal flicked his wrist, casting a weaker levitation spell than the one afforded by the scrolls, and rose into the air.

* * *

Gort lead the way into the second room, his heart pounding as they passed beneath the stone lintel and into a chamber much smaller than the first, about twenty feet long on a side. This one was clear of the rock formations, as the vaulted ceiling had been plated with hexagonal slabs of brass, each ornately decorated with gold filigree and mystical shapes of unknown meaning. They would have been grand in their day but were now dull, corroded with age and tarnished by red and green splotches in addition to the usual lichen. More flaming crystals hung on chains throughout the room, but these burned an inviting amber instead of the malevolent red.

The chief attraction of the room was the floor. Deep grooves had been cut into a large circle spanning about five feet across in the very center of the room. More concentric circles nested inside, growing smaller and smaller toward the center and finally terminating in a tiny hole much deeper than the rest of the lines. The circles were connected to one another with more grooves irregularly spaced so that the end result looked something like a maze. The entire thing was vaguely funnel-shaped: the center was a few inches deeper than the rest of the floor, but the gradient was gradual.

The only other feature of the room was easier to miss- on the wall to their right was a rectangular seam in the wall, as if the stone slab were designed to lower.

Both of them wore their helmets and had drawn their weapons, anticipating danger. Callista had left her buckler behind as it had been bent and broken by the sentry, but she carried Jasbir's potion bag on her shoulder. They looked around cautiously, and Callista approached the slab to run her fingers along the crack. There was no way a mortal would be able to move it; she couldn't even get her fingers in the narrow groove. She circled back over to Gort and they studied the maze on the floor, standing at its edge.

"What now? Gort asked.

Callista dipped her sword into a groove. It was only about an inch deep and rather thin, meaning it would be perfectly safe to walk on. Considering the shape it might be some elaborate storm drain... but why?

Both sets of eyes immediately snapped up to the tall figure that moved in the doorway, startling them both. Gort stepped in front of Callista, raising his axe, but his nerve faltered when he finally realized who he was looking at.

The Altmer's hair was disheveled and swept back, his face haggard and twisted by both anger and fatigue. The dirty clothes he wore were too small for him, leaving his lower arms and navel exposed, but still he wore the tall boots, utility belt and leather scabbard Gort had seen him with when last they met. His shortsword was already drawn in his hand. Gort's heart leapt to his throat but he pushed away the memories of humiliation. Callista needed him now.

"What do you want?" Gort snarled. "Don't you know that if you kill her, the world will be doomed?"

Nilaryal paused for a moment, then threw back his head and cackled hysterically. He had to grab the sides of the doorway to hold himself up, otherwise he would have stumbled back out of the room. Yes, the fatigue was certainly driving him mad, but that had been the final straw. His laughter echoed in the cavern. Gort scowled at the Altmer, Callista looking over his shoulder with brows furrowed in confusion. Finally the laughter trailed off and the Altmer pulled himself up straight to glare at his quarry. He thrust his sword out to point at them.

"Auriel will destroy this fetid prison you call a world! Are you so far fallen that you can't feel it, the decaying of your own flesh even as you inhabit it? The degradation of what once was boundless splendor? Fools!" he screamed the words, his throat raw and failing.

 _He's completely unhinged,_ Gort thought, slowly stepping closer.

"And where will you go once the world is destroyed?" Gort asked. Nilaryal scoffed derisively.

"You cannot com-"

Gort sprinted for the Altmer, axe raised in one hand to be buried into Nilaryal's shoulder but the Altmer moved quick as a whip and parried the strike. Gort swung low to catch his opponent on the hip as Nilaryal slashed at the Orc's head. The clang on his helm rang in his ears and he stumbled back while Nilaryal clumsily sidestepped into the room. Gort's axe had smashed into the potion pouch on his belt, driving shards of glass through the fabric into Nilaryal's skin and darkening his pants as the contents of his potions flooded out. His magicka and health restoratives were gone.

Callista ran at the Altmer but he flung out his left hand, sending a spray of ice flechettes into the air. She twisted aside just in time to miss them and they exploded into shards on the floor where she had been moments before, catching her legs with harmless ice shrapnel.

Gort came at the Altmer with an underhand swing but white light burst from Nilaryal's open palm, another volley of ice needles spraying across Gort's body. Most shattered on his armor but some drove through his leather gloves, through his pants just above his grieves in the gaps where the tasset-like strips of chainmail did not protect. He screamed as shards punctured flesh, the sheer cold as painful as the penetration. He stumbled back and the Altmer moved with him to bash Gort's helm with his sword, but Callista was there, knocking his blade out of the air with her own. He opened his palm to spray her with ice once more but Callista slashed down on his bare hand, his first three fingers severed and tumbling down as mini geysers of blood splurted from the stumps. Nilaryal screamed, dropped his sword, stumbled back into the corner by the doorway clutching his hand.

Callista pulled Gort away and they fell back to the center of the room as blue light glowed in Nilaryal's hand. He was heaving, face contorted in agony as fresh skin crawled over his finger stumps and the bleeding stopped.

The shards in his flesh had already dissolved into nothingness, granting Gort a reprieve from the cold but not from the pain. Warm blood poured from the wounds, dripping down his hands and soaking the inside of his pants in his grieves. Callista had guided him back toward the maze on the floor, back to gain distance where they could dodge his spells more effectively.

The Altmer wasn't stupid enough to keep firing when he knew they'd simply move out of the way- they would forever be stuck in a stand-off this way. Gort knew what they had to do but there wasn't time to communicate the plan in full. The Altmer had healed himself and stood gasping against the wall, staring in horror at his mutilated hand. The stumps weren't bleeding any more but his fingers still lay on the floor of the cavern.

"Stay behind me and strike second!" Gort belted and ran at the Altmer again just as he dove to pick up his dropped sword. Gort bellowed a war cry, his voice filling the cavern in a roar to rival the dragon. Even if Gort died in the attack, Callista would have a chance to strike at the Altmer after using Gort's body as a shield. Callista took her cue and ran behind him, shrieking her own battle cry, their voices as one.

The Altmer flung his ice flechettes again but Gort tilted his head to protect his eyes and ran through the rain of needles, his bellow raising to a scream as ice tore at his leather gloves and the flesh beneath, tore into the muscle where his thighs joined his body. He did not stop, raising his axe over his head for one final bash.

His eyes bulging, strands of yellow hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, veins standing out on forehead and neck the Altmer was the picture of terror. As expected he blocked the axe with his sword and Gort yanked down, catching the blade with the axe head and dragging the sword with it as he stepped aside and Callista drove her father's sword straight into the Altmer's belly with a wet _slsh_. He screamed and instinctively flung magicka at them with both hands, fire in one and ice in the other, his sword clattering to the ground. Callista and Gort turned, sprinted away as more ice stung Gort's flesh and flames scorched Callista's leather pants. Callista had abandoned her weapon still embedded in the Altmer's belly. Finally the torrent stopped and the Altmer sagged against the wall, his hands clutching the sword protruding from his gut and eyes rolled up to the ceiling. He still breathed haggardly, but his magicka appeared to be spent.

The circular maze in the center of the room had been spattered with Gort's blood. He stood over it now, his hands braced against his knees and axe still in hand, panting as more blood dripped down with a steady _plip plip plip._ Worse were the wounds in his groin and upper thighs. Every step he took felt as though it were tearing his muscles further. His pants were drenched with blood. Callista's hand was already in Jasbir's bag to find a healing potion for Gort. The Altmer was moaning in the corner, not yet dead but he would be soon if he didn't heal himself.

Rivulets of blood dripped from the stone into the grooves on the floor, were funneled down by the gentle slope. Suddenly a deep grinding vibrated the room. Gort and Callista glanced around wildly, searching for the stone golems they thought might appear, but Gort quickly realized there was movement below his feet. He jumped back in shock. Callista, standing at the edge of the rotating circles, looked down at the spattering of Orc blood in the grooves and then up at the slab of stone behind Gort. It was slowly retracting into the ground.

"I understand now," Callista whispered.

Nilaryal's head rolled against his shoulders. A spear of agony pinned him to the wall- he wasn't really pinned, the sword hadn't passed through him, but he couldn't imagine standing or moving. His limbs were numb, heavy, and Nilaryal vaguely knew that he was in shock. He was dying, but strangely unperturbed by this. Everything seemed to move around him in slow motion, as if in a dream. He could feel the pittance of magicka still at his command, perhaps enough to heal his grievous wound if he could pull out the sword. He grinned in spite of his impending obliteration- there would be no ascension of his soul, no joining with the divine, not this day. But perhaps for his people there could be. The figures before him were so blurry, and both clothed in identical chainmail... It didn't matter. This was his final gambit- everything he had he poured into the attack.

Gort's back was to the Altmer. Callista saw the white-blue glow in his hand.

"Gort!" she screamed. Too late. Light exploded from the palm, the massive stream of magicka resolving into a solid spear of ice the size of a man's forearm. Callista leapt at Gort, knocking him out of the way as the massive shard impacted her chest, ripping through links of chain as if they were cloth. She felt the freezing agony as it tore through her heart and out the other side. She crumpled. Gort's axe hit the ground, his eyes wide and entire face contorted in shock. He grabbed her by the arms and went down on his knees along with her. Wisps of freezing magicka swirled around the ice lodged in her chest. Rivers of blood streamed from her lips, dribbled down her chin. Callista's eyes rolled up. Everything was dark, closing in on her. She could see Gort's eyes under his helm and little else. She could hear grinding as the slab continued to lower, but then it stopped. Her eyes flicked over to the blurry object there, recessed in the wall, which the slab had hidden.

"Callista! Callista!" Gort held her in his arms, the ice still protruding. He ripped off her helm and flung it aside, grabbed the bag that still rested against her hip. A red potion was in his hands in a second.

"It was you all along," Callista whispered, her voice garbled by blood in her throat. She coughed once, specks of blood hitting Gort's chain veil, and slackened in the Orc's grasp. Tears poured from his eyes, obscuring his vision. The cork was off, the vial against her lips, filling her mouth and spilling back out, wasted.

"No, no, no," Gort sobbed, tipping the vial steeper, holding Callista's jaw open with his other hand. The vial empty, he cast it aside and dug out another. It was the same as the last; wasted. Blood continued to ooze out of her mouth.

Gort screamed, he cried, his voice chanted unintelligible words over and over again. Somehow he found his feet and his axe. The Altmer was slumped dead against the wall, having used his last magicka to kill the dragonborn rather than heal his own wounds. Blinded by tears Gort hacked, his axe smashing through flesh, skull, brains, over and over again until the Altmer was an unrecognizable mash of gore. He howled with every blow, his face wet with snot and tears and spittle.

When he was only driving his axe into the stone and no longer cutting through Altmer he stumbled away, dropped his axe in the pulp and staggered back to the corpse in the center of the room. The shard of ice had finally collapsed in on itself, evaporated into a mist of magicka to leave behind a gaping hole in her armor, her chest, viscera and blood dripping. He threw off his helm, shucked off his gloves. His hands and groin were still bleeding, but slower now. The wounds weren't life threatening and the pain was nothing to him now. He dropped to his knees before her, gathered the corpse into his arms, buried his face against her neck and sobbed. Her eyes were still open, dull and lifeless.

He cried until his voice grew hoarse and died and the tears stopped flowing. His entire body ached, especially his head. His heart throbbed painfully in his forehead. Gort finally pulled away from Callista, strands of snot and spittle breaking as he moved back and gently lowered her body to the floor. His mouth hung open in an agonized grimace but no more sound would come out. Still on his knees, he raised his head and twisted to look beside himself, at the recess in the wall that had been covered by stone.

A sword was embedded vertically there in the wall, exactly as Jasbir had described. It was rusty and dingy, no scabbard to protect the brittle blade. The golden hilt was shaped into a dragon's head at the pommel. A claw setting gripped a tear-cut, ruby-red gem below the crossguard, which resembled the wings of a dragon unfurled. It did not glitter beneath the dust.

So this was the thing they had come so far for, only for Callista to die protecting a worthless Orsimer bandit. He didn't understand. Why did she do it? Why had she condemned the world for his sake? What had made the compartment open? What were the rings on the floor? Gort didn't understand and a very large part of him didn't care. Let the world be devoured. He didn't want to be alive, didn't want to suffer anymore. He wanted it all to end.

He staggered to the newly exposed section of wall and fell against it, unwilling to support his own weight. There was a slight indentation on either side of the hilt, obviously a finger hold so that a person could remove the sword from the wall. He reached out, his fingers closing around the hilt, his hands smeared with his own blood. His bloodied thumb brushed against the red diamond and Gort was somewhere else.

Gort hung in a vortex of light, bodiless, eyeless but not sightless, a countless number of parallel realities streaming around him, through him, and Gort knew the past and the future of each as clearly as he knew his own memories. He could see the flow of his own life like a river, branching out into countless distributaries that forked again and again, an endless fractal of possibility. He saw a world in which he was tall and strong like his father, chieftain and warlord to thousands of Orcs. He saw a world in which he was human, draped in silk finery and crowned in gold, seated on a high-backed throne.

 _I don't understand. I don't understand!_ But Gort did understand; he could not accept it.

He remembered a day that had not existed in his own life, but in the life of some other Gortwog gro-Urgak, some other version of himself.

He sat on the floor of his yurt playing with warriors carved from bone, his fingers short and stubby. His mother was there, wearing a cheerfully cyan dress and marigold-orange undertunic, her black hair pulled up in her usual bun. Gort had always thought she was the prettiest woman in the village. More than that, Morzola always had a genuinely kind word for everyone no matter who they were. She completely lacked the pettiness and pretension of her sister-wives, who thought themselves better than others for being married to a chieftain. All of this goodness Gort could see plainly in her smiling eyes. She was just as he remembered her now, only younger than last he saw her and infinitely more beautiful.

She sat on her own bed mending Gort's clothing. Fire crackled in the center of the yurt, bathing the small room in comfortable warmth and light. Snowflakes drifted down through the smoke hole above the fire but melted to nothing before they could land.

It was so peaceful to be inside on a cold day such as this, but something was troubling Gort. He laid aside his toys and pushed himself off the plush wolf fur rug. His mother finally looked up when Gort stood beside her, his hand braced against the bed. Gort relived this memory as if he were there, and to see his mother alive hurt his heart as surely as if he'd been stabbed. He ached to throw his arms around her and squeeze her tight one last time, but the only thing he could do was watch a scene already carved into slate.

"I'm not like other Orcs, am I, Mama?" Gort asked in the squeaky, prepubescent voice of an eight year old, his eyes sadly downcast. Morzola laid the clothes and sewing needle on the bed beside her and took Gort's small hands in her own.

"Everyone is different from everyone else," Morzola said softly.

"That's not what I mean, Mama! You know... Why are my tusks so short? Why can't I run as far as Kurza? Things like that..." Gort's eyes flicked up at Morzola's and down again. He absently ran his tongue over his tiny tusk. Everyone teased him because they were short like a woman's, but even some of the girls had longer tusks than he did. Morzola sighed and looked skyward as if pleading to Malacath. She briefly closed her eyes and when she opened them again her face had changed, as if fully resolved and unafraid.

"Sit beside me, Gort. There's something I need to tell you." She released his hands and Gort did as asked, jumping up to sit beside her on the furs. His mother turned and smiled kindly as she always did. Gort knew his mother loved him when she looked at him like that, even if it embarrassed him sometimes. She spoke calmly, without hesitation or any hint of regret. "Before you were born, I made regular trips to a mannish town to trade for supplies. During one trip a man attacked me on the road, a human of some sort. He forced himself on me... I later became pregnant. I didn't tell your father because I was afraid of what he might do to us. I couldn't be sure who my child truly belonged to... but it didn't matter to me, Gortwog. It still doesn't. I love you, all of you, even if you don't love yourself." She put her arm around his tiny shoulder and rubbed him gently. Gort stared forward in shock, unable to believe what he had learned.

His focus on this memory to the exclusion of all others began to slip away and Gort was pulled back into the tide of times, into the multitude of places and things and thoughts all cascading together in a mishmash of reality. _No!_ his mind screamed. _Take me back to her! Let me be with her!_ Instead he rose higher, and it was as if he looked upon Nirn from every angle, from every set of eyes. A serpentine body of dazzling golden light enwreathed the globe of Nirn, endlessly looped and entwined with itself, the long-muzzled face of the Dragon God incomprehensibly glorious. It raced over Nirn with jaws gaping wide, devouring mountains, cities, religions, peoples. The very _idea_ of these things were swallowed and gone, wiped from the collective memory one by one- but Gort saw them still, superimposed on the new reality taking their place.

 _Why am I here? If I am the dragonborn, how do I stop this?!_

 **Why would you seek to prevent the birth of the world? All things must end as all things must begin. You are the catalyst for this kalpa.**

As Gort watched the Dragon of Time ravage the world, he looked within the god and saw the tributaries of time shifting and merging with the main channel, building the new reality to replace the old. As Gort examined the shifting river and the new histories that played out, he began to realize that the shifting did not happen randomly- it was reacting to Gort's own thoughts.

With an effort that amounted to less than the twitch of his little finger he could reach out to grasp an idea, a kingdom, a place, and pull it as if thread to weave the strand into the tapestry of time. He could wipe out entire races, entire wars if he so desired! But he found that every time he shifted away war, death, and famine from history, the change either precipitated or followed another horrible event someplace else in time. He scoured the time-threads for a reality in which there were no wars and found none.

Where was the age of everlasting peace, the society that valued mutual respect and cooperation above all else? It did not exist.

 _There is one thing I can do_. He saw the price: a war, sometime in the distant future of this world. He saw every person who would die as a result of this change. He saw, too, the descendants of the survivors who would persevere and rebuild. He saw a new Orsinium built by his progeny and protected by allies from the old race he would save, its splendor to rival the dying Empire. He saw a tiny bubble of peace and prosperity floating on the churning rapids of time.

 **This is your choice?**

 _It is._

The light released him and Gort was back in the Cavern of Ages, his hand closed around the hilt of a sword shining and brilliant as if newly forged and freshly polished. He pulled it from its receptacle, the weight of it so very right in his hand. Gort retained only a very tiny fraction of all the knowledge, the memories he had gleaned when he looked upon the god but he knew that here, at the focus, time was unchanged. The world beyond would remember nothing of the previous age. Gort could remember not only what changes had been made to the world, but the future for generations to come, although his memory of these things were quickly fading. He knew that he would raise children, instill in them powerful ideas, and one of them would go on to unite his people. By the time he had turned back to Callista's corpse this information was gone. He could only remember his own past in a world that no longer existed.

He used Callista's empty scabbard to sheath his sword, then lifted her body to cradle it against his chest. No tears would fall despite the pain that rent his heart. Somewhere in this new.. kalpa, perhaps a different version of Callista still lived. He couldn't quite remember. He knew that he had an important role to play in this world, but what exactly? The vision so clear a moment ago now escaped him. He only knew that Callista's sacrifice must not be in vain. Her ideas of a better world in which leaders valued the lives of their subjects over power and conquest... he would make this happen. Somehow.

Was his mother still alive in this world? Was Jasbir? Would the old priest know him? Would Callista be waiting in Stonecross, and would she even believe his tale if she were? Gort walked through the dark chamber, past the stone sentries, her body so unnaturally light in his arms. He held her tight as he pushed through the narrow passage, up and up, and into the light of day.

Raxrikaasal was there, her head thrown back and she trumpeted joyfully when Gort emerged from the crevice. _So_ , Gort thought, _she was close enough to the cavern that her memories of the old world were spared._ Gort immediately noticed black specks in the distance, thick like a swarm of migrating birds circling over Red Mountain, which no longer belched smoke into the sky. It seemed even taller than before.

"My people live!" Raxrikaasal cried, raising up and spreading her wings wide. She fell back on all fours, arching her neck up and bobbing her head in what must have been a drakish expression of joy. A loud flapping caught his attention and Gort craned his head back in time to see a flight of three dragons passing overhead, one ruddy-brown like Raxrikaasal but one a brilliant blue and the other emerald green with a yellow underbelly. Their majesty nearly took his breath away.

 _Dragons have returned to Nirn. I wonder what other new races, what new lands might be waiting? My village might not even exist anymore..._

"I am sorry that your friend did not survive, small one," Raxrikaasal said, as if she had only just noticed the corpse. "I pledge to you that all dragonkind will know her deed and yours. I am indebted to you a hundred times over, as shall be my children and theirs. Will you come with me to Red Mountain? I think this must be our new home. I will see to it that she is entombed in a place of honor, if you wish it."

"Yes." Gort nodded faintly. Perhaps the dragons could fill him in on everything that had changed in the world, if they took Raxrikaasal's story seriously. After that, he had a lot of work to do- he must discover the fates of Morzola, Jasbir, Callista... and his own still to come.

Still hugging the body against his chest, Gort walked to the edge of the bluff and looked out upon the new world he had helped birth. The wind tugged at both of their hair and granted some semblance of life to the pale corpse in his arms despite the reeking blood that stained her face and body. He closed his eyes against the threat of tears.

"I'll make you proud, Callista," he whispered to the air, to the rolling expanse of mountains and valleys that stretched out before him, to the distant Dunmeri cities and Akatosh/Alduin/Auriel only knew what else.

"I promise."

* * *

 _The End._


End file.
